


Found Art

by zillybooradley



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Collars, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marking, Master/Kitten, Masturbation, Punishment, Reunions, Spanking, Vanilla
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 32,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillybooradley/pseuds/zillybooradley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a college kid, teaching piano in his spare time to pay for his small apartment on Maple Street.<br/>Bro is a homeless man who lives on the corner of Maple and 63rd.<br/>After a while, they realize it was inevitable that they'd become more than 'neighbors'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the first six chapters are totally Safe For Work, all intro and friendship and fluff. Only after that does it get dirty. UvU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to my first fic ever. enjoy your stay and leave comments and critiques if you want!
> 
> (PS smut happens in chapter seven on. you shouldn't skip ahead but I know some of you are going to anyway so I may as well help you out.)

==> Be the responsible, intelligent young man your father raised you to be.

Ever since Rose moved out one month ago, you've been pretty lonely. It's not like you can blame her for leaving - the offer to live with a lovely girl in a swanky New York apartment would tempt you, too - but that doesn't mean you don't miss her. Still, there are some perks to living alone. You don't have to deal with her Wiccan shit all the time, and there's no burning sage wafting through your home anymore. It also got kinda awkward when she brought her girlfriend over. Rose is like a sister to you, and hearing her moan through your way-too-thin walls was getting a bit old. 

Since she moved out, you've spent a lot more time Skyping with Dave. He's still in Texas, going to college in Austin and DJing for a living. It's kind of fun having such a 'cool' friend. It's also cool knowing that only you know the truth about Dave Strider - that he's a total dweeb. The two of you visit every other month or so, one of you flying out to see the other. It's expensive, but he's loaded and you work a lot. It's worth the price to see your best friend. 

Dave was a foster kid who got adopted by some music producer who saw him on YouTube. It was a pretty sweet deal, but it always made Dave upset that he hasn't seen his brother since. His brother, or 'Bro' as he calls him, aged out and they lost contact. He doesn't talk about it much, because they haven't seen each other since Dave was eleven. It's a sensitive subject.  
You work at a bookstore part time, spending the remainder of your day either teaching piano to local kids or going to classes at community college. Although you got accepted to a few nice performing arts schools, they were all too expensive. Spending the first two years at Shoreline Community College just made more sense, and it also frees up your schedule so you can work more. Neither of your jobs pay very much, which is why you work so often. The kids you teach piano to live in the same low-income neighborhood you do; the only difference is that they've been here their whole lives.

With most of them, you teach for free.

Despite all the annoyances of day-to-day life, you're happy. Your relationship with your dad is better than ever, and you're managing to make rent without a roommate. Since your grandmother died, you've inherited a nice fortune that you can turn to when you're running behind. Everything is going pretty excellent, and you can't say you have any complaints. Right now, there's only one thing that you aren't completely happy with.

Him.

The homeless man on the corner of your street, whom you see every day when walking to school or work, always puts knots in your stomach. It isn't that you're afraid of him, or disgusted by the way he looks or smells. It isn't anything negative about his character. He doesn't hurt you, he doesn't try and touch you in weird ways like the men on your bus do. The man doesn't say crude things to you, and he doesn't get angry when you don't have spare change. He's kind and sweet, and when you apologize for not having any money for him he just smiles and says "Yer cute lil' smile is enough for today." It's almost like he's your friend, but you know you could never say that to him. You hardly know him, after all, and he'd probably just think you were weird. The thing that bothers you is how helpless you are. He always looks so hopeless and alone and there's nothing you can do. Sure, you could give him money or food - but that won't make him happy. You want to make him happy, somehow. All you've ever really wanted out of life is to make people happy. It's strange, and quite sad, that the only person you like talking to on a daily basis is the one person you can't help.

It's November, and it's getting colder by the day. The man - who you've nicknamed 'Shades' because of those ridiculous sunglasses he always wears (regardless of weather) - keeps layering coat after coat by the day. All of them are old and grimy and obviously taken from a trashcan or bought at a thrift store. You worry for him at night. Sometimes he wanders around, probably looking for a shelter, but he's always back at the corner by nighttime. It's cold, even in your well-heated apartment. Sometimes you worry he won't be there when you wake up, and instead laying in a county morgue. The homeless people around here often either leave or perish in the wintertime, but Shades doesn't seem to want to move from his corner. It's almost like a home to him, you figure, and you really can't blame him for wanting a home. 

It's only after a long, lonely day of work and class that you come home and see him, lying nearly lifeless on the sidewalk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bro falls asleep, cold and alone. When he wakes up, the concrete feels like a couch, and the grime feels like a home.  
> Turns out, the cute boy next door noticed him for more than his witty cardboard sign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bro's point of view. I will, most likely, be switching off POVs between John and Bro throughout the story.  
> I hope you enjoy it! Thank you so, so much for all the lovely comments. As this is my first fic, it means a lot!

==> Be the hopeless piece of shit you never wanted to become.

When you were fifteen, you joined an L.A. gang. 

When you were sixteen, you picked up a gun and you shot it. The boy you shot was a year younger than you, and when he got up again, you were more thankful than you felt you should have been. You felt a little less gratitude when he shot back, creating one of many scars on your body.

When you were seventeen, you and your brother were moved back 'home', to Houston, where you decided that it was better to shoot up than shoot at, so you put down the gun and picked up a syringe. 

When you were eighteen, you promised your little brother that you'd find him, somehow, in all the mess and all the moving. You gave him your phone number and promised him you'd come back, adopt him, and help him find a better life. By the time he got around to calling, your phone had been stolen.

When you were nineteen, you went back to L.A. and sold heroin, pocketing some to use yourself and giving most of the cash to your boss.

When you were twenty, you were sentenced ten years for dealing and using. You got out early, in only five, for good behavior. Truthfully, your prison guard and you had a little thing going and he helped you. Once the warden found out, though, Jake got fired and deported back to South America. You don't miss him as much as you thought you would. Secretly, you always thought you needed him more than he needed you. 

When you were twenty-five, you hitchhiked your way up north, away from the drugs and the violence of Los Angeles. Nobody wants to hire a scary looking, orange-eyed, inked up broke dude for office or barista work, though, so you became homeless. You found a doorway of an abandoned apartment building that was boarded and locked up, and you 'settled down' for the first time in months. Begging on the streets for change, you saved up enough for food and a visit to a coin laundry every week or so. After a few weeks of you moving in, a cute Asian kid moved in to the apartment next to the one you live in front of. The place is pretty nice, judging from what you read on the free brochure posted outside. Sure, the neighborhood's filled with ex-cons (you) and what you view to be 'pathetic' homeless people (also you), but with that kid around, it seems a little nicer. He's always smiling and apologizing when he only has a couple quarters, and his face lights up when you respond "Ain't a problem, honey. Your cute lil' smile's all I need." It's true, too. He really does make your day.

Now, you are 26, and damn, it's cold. In L.A., it was often warm even in November. In Seattle, that's not the case. You should have expected this, but that doesn't make it any more bearable. Over the last couple weeks, all your money's been spent on Goodwill coats and hot coffee from McDonald's. It's been a few days since you've slept well due to the cold. This is the first night you've gotten any sleep, but this isn't exactly a peaceful slumber. You were so freezing that you could hardly move, and you eventually passed out. The last thing you remember is that cute twink's pretty blue eyes looking you over and some mumbled words of 'We've gotta get you inside.' He must've helped you inside, because you're lying on something that is far softer than the usual concrete. You don't remember standing, and you certainly don't remember being partially undressed, washed, and given a blanket and a cool towel for your forehead. He left your shades on, thank god, but your shirt is gone and your chest is suspiciously clean. 

Your name is Broderick D. Strider. You are twenty-six years old and there's a dweeby little angel standing in front of you when you wake up. He greets you, babbling something about how he helped you inside because you looked so cold and blah, blah, something about your 'cool tattoos', blah, blah, something about not wanting to cut himself on your shades, blah, blah, "What's your name?" 

You tell him, call me Bro, and he tells you, call me John. 

Before you can respond, he's ran off to the kitchen to get what smells like chicken soup off the stove. You don't know if it's poisoned and this kid is some really weird, nerdy serial killer, but you gulp it down anyway. 

You don't dare accept this apartment as your home, but you feel more safe and happy than you have in years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's point of view as he comes to terms with what he's gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your comments are so nice, wow! I wrote this chapter on the train so please let me know if there's any silly typos. hopefully the chapters will be somewhere around this length from now on.

==> Be the responsible, intelligent man who just carried a random homeless dude into his apartment. 

You keep telling yourself that it was the right thing to do. He would've died tonight, you're sure of it. Besides, he doesn't seem strong enough - physically or mentally - to do you any harm. Shades is currently passed out on your couch, grimy and cold, and you aren't sure where to go next. There's a couple things you need to do to help him. The guy needs food, a shower, and warmth. You've put a couple blankets on him, but when you go to check how he's doing you notice he's got a horrible fever. Pursing your lips in frustration, you slowly and painstakingly remove his jackets and shirt. 

He's more muscular than you expected, and absolutely covered in tattoos. They spread from his upper arms and shoulders across his chest. Some of them are kind of nice - you figure he might have a kid somewhere, because there's a baby handprint over his heart with two numbers over it: 1992 and 2003. Years, maybe? Perhaps the child died or something. Either way, it's pretty cute and nicely done - especially compared to the other ones. Those ones aren't as nice. A couple look prison related, and a couple gang related. Personally, you don't know much about gangs. You're a suburban-born Vietnamese kid whose only real heartache was your mother's death when you were eleven and the constant bullying you faced in middle and high school. It wasn't fun, but it certainly wasn't at this level. This guy's seen some shit, and while you can't deny that the tattoos are sexy as hell, you know they likely don't hold happy memories. 

Once his clothes are off (only from the waist up, of course. You're way too nervous to venture more south.) you wipe down his sweaty, grimy chest with a damp towel. By the time you're done, the bleached white fabric has turned a light, dirty brown. It isn't pleasant. Once Shades wakes up, you'll have him take a shower. Perhaps food should come first, though? You aren't entirely sure how this should go. For now, you get him slightly cleaned up and take off his hat so you can clean his face. The pointy-ass sunglasses intimidate you a bit, and you worry that they might actually be sharp. Because of this, you leave them be. Besides, you figure he doesn't wear them for style. Every time you see him, he has them on - and you mostly see him at nighttime. Often, you see him wearing them in the rain. 

He seems pretty out, so you cover him with a warm blanket and put a cold towel on his forehead. You should probably take his temperature, but you don't want to bother him. For the past few months, you've seen him sleep on a sidewalk. This is, most likely, a very welcome change in atmosphere. As he sleeps, you cook. You make a simple soup for him, chicken noodle with some broth you made from scratch the other day. In your opinion, it tastes pretty damn good. Leaving it to simmer, you go into the living room and sit by him on an armchair. To pass the time, you get some reading done. You've been reading a lot of Shakespeare lately, partly because you like it but mostly because it makes you feel smart. You're at a particularly moving bit in Hamlet when you hear him stir next to you. 

After a groggy, confused set of stretches and yawns, he looks at you through his shades. "Well, hot damn." Shades murmurs, running his fingers through his straggly blond hair. He doesn't seem upset or angry that he's here, which is good. Before he can ask about what the hell happened, you blurt out the whole story. "I, uh. I see you every day, on the corner by my apartment. By this apartment, I mean! Because you're in my apartment. So." Off to a smooth start, Egbert. Excellent work in your project for your 'Make Conversation With Your New Homeless Vagrant Friend' class. You'll get an A this semester for sure. Taking a deep breath, you continue after searching your frazzled mind for the right words. 

"You looked really cold and kind of dead, so I woke you up and helped you walk to my place. Sorry, I know that's probably weird!" You really hate when you stutter or stumble over your words. It only happens when you're really nervous or in an uncomfortable situation, but Dave always teases you about it over webcam. He says you sound like that first scene in Boku no Pico, when the kid is babbling on while the creepy teenager gives him a vaguely anatomically incorrect blowjob. The whole 'Tiny Asian shota twink' stereotype isn't exactly something you're fond of, though you accept your twink status with pride. Once you found out that dudes often likes lanky, skinny guys, you decided to run with the label. 

After allowing yourself a good four seconds of silence to think to yourself about Boku no Pico, stuttering, and other really important things, you continue. "I got worried, y'know? You're always pretty nice to me when I walk by, so I felt kinda obligated. By the way, what's your name?" He tells you to call him Bro, and you're instantly reminded of Dave's missing brother. It'd be crazy, though, for the absent family member and your neighborhood homeless man to be the same person. Pushing that silly thought out of your head, you reply with a smile. "Call me John." The two of you can finish introductions when he's well. Speaking of which, you really ought to get him some food. 

Suddenly remembering the soup, you stand quickly and grab a tray and a spoon, along with a bowl of steaming-hot broth and noodles. Setting the tray on the coffee table next to him, you sit back down. "You have a fever, I think, so I cleaned you off and took off your shirt and stuff. I didn't do anything creepy, I promise! I just washed your chest and face - your tattoos are pretty neat, by the way." He grabs the soup and starts eating, rather quickly considering how hot it is. You briefly consider warning him about the heat, but he looks to be so hungry he doesn't mind. "Glad you like the soup. Family recipe, haha." Shades fixes the sunglasses that give him his nickname (a nickname he isn't aware of) and takes extra care in being sure you can't see his eyes. Although you're incredibly curious about what's behind those shades, you don't dare ask. Instead, you continue rambling. "I was gonna take off your sunglasses to clean off your face, but they seem kinda special to you. Not that your shirts and hat weren't special, but, you know." Another bit of suave, charming speech from John Egbert. After another awkward silence, he clears his throat and looks up at you. Taking a deep breath, Shades speaks. It's not just three word sentences like before, either. This time, he actually makes an effort to converse with you.

The only problem is that you're much better at rambling than you are chatting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bro and John get acquainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow plot is happening, how nice!  
> thank you all for the comments. I know I say that on like...every chapter........ but it's just because it means a lot!  
> enjoy.

==> Be the very cozy, albeit seriously scared grown man.

Really, you'd expected Hell to be a little less...

Comfortable.

Because you're dead. You didn't make the night, not surprisingly, and you're dead. Right? That is, honestly, the only logical approach to understanding this situation. Nobody's this kind. No eighteen, nineteen year old kid adopts a fucking homeless man because he likes his smile. That's bullshit, right? That shit only happens in those spiritual chain e-mails you assume great-uncles send. Personally, you never had any great-uncles. Maybe you'll meet them here - you've no doubt that any extended family you may have had were horrible people. 

Just like you.

Mystery Angel Boy is sitting next to you, tearing up over the pages of some book you were probably assigned in the eleventh grade. Had you done the assignment, it could've made for a good conversation topic. Ah, well. Life goes on without Mr. Shakespeare. Mystery Angel Boy explains the bare minimum of things to you before running off to get you some food. He made you soup, apparently. Seems that Hell isn't bad at all.

You eat quickly, loving the burn of broth on your tongue. The heat is welcomed, and you don't mind the pain. Is this the tortures of hell? Too-hot chicken noodle soup served by an incredibly tempting kid? He could be jailbait, for all you know - but he seems to live here alone. Listening to him talk, you quickly realize that he's probably a college kid. John's his name. Kid's got pretty blue eyes and big-ass teeth and clear, milky skin. He's skinny, but not muscular at all - in fact, his build is part of why you can't believe this is real. How stupid do you have to be to help a homeless man into your apartment when you're this small? You could be a crazy murderer or something. Lucky for him, you aren't. (You're just an ex-dealer and addict who was in prison and used to fight kids and rob them. What a catch.) 

He talks a lot. It should be annoying, but it's actually helping you come to realize the truth. This is really happening. You're really on a couch, you really have a slight fever, and you're really eating a home-cooked meal. The boy, John, is so genuine and dorky that you actually wouldn't be too surprised if he did this a lot. By 'this', you mean 'adopting creatures off the street'. He probably has like six stray cats. Still, you're very surprised. Human kindness isn't something you're too used to. The only person who's nice to you anymore is John. Even before tonight, he was kind to you. He'd always say "Yeah, I have some spare change!" and then give you a five dollar bill. Once, you saw that he had plenty of ones in his wallet. Nobody but him ever gave you fives. He doesn't know it, but this isn't the first time the kid saved your life. One night a few weeks ago, he gave you a five when you were completely broke. You thought you might die. It'd been days since you'd eaten and then suddenly, this kid pays for your dinner. 

You had a McDonald's feast fit for a Burger King.

Finally, his speech falters. This gives you a chance to speak, so you sit up a little before finally answering him. "John. It's John, right?" Before he can respond, you answer your own question. "Shit, yeah. John. Okay." Just like he was a moment ago, you're becoming self conscious about your speaking skills. He'a just one guy, Strider. He's just a kid you did you a major solid and you gotta talk to him. So, taking a deep breath, you do. "Listen. You should know that, first off, I'm really fuckin' grateful. Don't think I ain't. You've saved my goddamn life and I appreciate it." No shit you appreciate it. Do people ever not appreciate having a cute boy rescue them? "But listen, man. You don't know shit about me. You don't know who I am or what I've done, so..." You pause, hesitating as you search for the right words. "Why me? Why the hell did you decide to help some stranger that could totally fuck you up? Sorry, John, but that ain't exactly a smart idea. I mean, shit. This ink means something, kid, and it ain't a pretty meaning." 

When you pause to take a breath, he interjects. "Shit, dude. Stop rambling." Apparently, he's feeling a little less shy. You're tempted to snap at him for being disrespectful, but you really don't deserve his respect. He continues, frowning at you. "You're a nice guy. You remind me of a friend. Every time I see you, you smile at me. You don't, like, grab my ass or scream at me like the homeless guys on my bus." John smiles at you and it feels strange. This politeness, this human decency and respect isn't something you're used to. It's almost like he views the two of you as equals. That's impossible for you to believe, though. Your self esteem isn't exactly high, but you gotta admit that this is helping. The kid's so kind and genuine and dweeby, just like the kids you used to beat up in high school - fuck, you don't want to think about that right now. Those aren't happy memories. Ain't nothin' worse than a thug in the closet, beating on little queer kids to make himself feel a bit more hetero.

Right now, though, you decide to focus on what John's saying. "You might've done some shady stuff, but I know you've never killed anybody. Those are prison tattoos, and if you were in prison for murder, you'd still be there. Same goes for abuse and assault and stuff, I think." He seems a little nervous about deciding what crimes you've committed. To help him out, you answer the unspoken question. "Drugs, John. I dealt and used. The point still stands, though, that you were takin' a mighty gamble." Quickly, he makes his retort. "You have a fever of 102.3. If you tried anything, all I'd have to do was stop sneaking ibuprofen into your food and you'd pass out from exhaustion." John smirks at you, all smug and proud for his little trick. This boy might be more tough - or at least more clever - than you thought. "Anyway. You're nice, you needed help, and if I didn't bring you up here you'd be sleeping in a morgue tonight." So maybe he has a point. He saved your life and you aren't about to hurt a cute little thing like him, (you have a feeling he'd despise that description,) so clearly, he got lucky.

"Kid. That's not the point." You shush him, wearing waving your hand in the air. "Y'can't just go around saving strangers -" Stopping in the middle of your sentence, you think back to something Dave told you once. Something about Batman, about how he'd always been Dave's favorite hero because he didn't have any parents, either. Dave went on to talk about how much he admired people who saved strangers without anything in return. This kid knows you can't do shit for him, and yet he risked his safety to help you out. The memory, combined with the sudden realization that you could've died tonight, makes you tear up. You blink it all back, though, and finish what you were saying. "Fuck, okay. Nevermind. You're a cute little angel and I appreciate it. You saved my life, kid. Don't really know why, but I ain't about to make you regret it."

And you definitely do not make him regret it. You vow, in that second, that you'll do whatever it takes to help this kid out. While brainstorming how to help him out, you remember something he said earlier. "Wait, hold up." You get yourself sitting up a little straighter, pushing back your hair. "You said somethin' about homeless dudes fuckin' with you, right? Gimmie the details. What they look like, what they did. I'll teach them not to mess with my neighbors." Growling playfully, you try to put on the most faux-tough guy expression you can. It almost looks like the hairs on the back of his neck shoot up. Always good to know you've still got it. 

"Take a shower, shave, let me see what the hell you look like under all -" He flattens his palm and waves his hand in a circle over his mouth and jaw. "- this. Then we'll talk about who messes with me and we'll discuss what happens next." Seeing as you haven't showered in three weeks, you don't deny him that. Also, the promise to discuss your future interests you. "Ignore any weird beauty products in the bathroom. My roommate just moved out and she had some, uh. Strange tastes." He laughs, a cute little giggle that you're sure you'll enjoy. After he points you to the bathroom, you make your way there and begin to make yourself look like a normal human being again. You've missed that, being a normal human being.

Then again, it's not like you ever were one in the first place.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks a lot less intimidating not covered in facial hair and brick walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if you all don't like David Bowie or Biggie Smalls. I'm gonna be making a lot of music references in this fic.
> 
> Also - i swear, this fic WILL earn its M rating soon. it won't be for language, either.
> 
> hope y'all are down with kinky shit.

==> Be the frazzled young pianist who is thanking his lucky stars that the man he just took into his apartment isn't a murderer.

It was when your mom died that you decided you wanted to pursue medicine. You thought perhaps you could've saved her, had you been a Doogie Howser kid doctor type. Her cancer was terminal. While in treatment, the medicine made her hurt so much she wanted to die. There were times when the way she looked at you made you think you should pull the plug, end her pain, end her. 

You didn't, though. You didn't end her. 

You did, however, alleviate the pain a bit. At the time of her diagnosis, you were nine years old. Nine year olds, not surprisingly, do not deal well under stress. However, children have a way of understanding how to make people hurt a little less. You did it through piano. Jokes, too - but what she really loved was when you played for her. You'd bring your miniature keyboard to her room, sit in the misshapen, mysteriously stained armchair next to her bed, and you'd play. At the time, her favorite song was 'Life on Mars', by David Bowie, so you'd play that. You'd sing for her in your high, pre-pubescent boy voice and she'd smile and clap weakly when you finished. 

The last song you ever played her was also by Bowie. You learned it to surprise her, as it was one of her other favorites. The song was 'Changes', and after she died, you listened to it on repeat for days on end. 

For some reason, the song felt like it needed to be played. Maybe some part of you knew she was going to go. Maybe you knew that there were going to be some literal changes in your life soon, and playing that song to her was your way of saying 'It's gonna be okay.' When visiting hours ended and you went home to go to bed, you kissed her on the forehead and you whispered something in her ear. 

"Time may change me,  
but I can't trace time."  
She whispered back,  
"I said that time may change me,"

At this point, she was interrupted by a coughing fit. The nurse rushed in to help, and shooed you away - but before you left, your mother sang the rest of the song.  
"But I can't trace time."  
She waved goodbye, blowing a kiss as the nurse took her blood pressure. You caught the kiss in the palm of your hand, slapping yourself lightly on the cheek to show it'd been successfully received.

You left. The next time you saw your mother's face, she was in a casket. It was only after you and your father recovered from grief that you realized the truth - medicine couldn't have saved her. The cancer didn't give her a chance, but you did. Your music helped her smile, even on that agonizing last day. It may not have saved her life, but 'Changes' saved your mother's sanity. This is when you came to terms with the fact that instead of becoming a doctor, you needed to spread the joy of music like she and your dad did for you. Becoming a piano teacher was the best decision of your life.

Needless to say, that song means a lot to you. It's quite possible that your fascination with ghosts and spirits stems from the unspoken wish that your mom is still here with you, watching you at every piano recital. Whenever you need her advice or support, you play 'Changes'. 

And that's what you do while your new friend showers. Desperate for some sort of guidance in how to help him better, you play the song over and over. Initially, you think your headphones are plugged in and he can't hear. The only noise you expect him to register is the shower running, and perhaps a bit of your soft singing as well. 

Your headphones were not plugged in. 

He leaves the bathroom, shaved and clean and really, really attractive. At first, you don't register that he's done. The sound of the piano combined with your own voice is enough to distract you from your surroundings. Before you know it, there's a voice accompanying your own. Bro finishes the last two lines of the song and for just a split second, just a moment of not registering who was singing, you almost thought it was your mother. "Time may change me." Her voice was light and sweet, while his is smooth and deep. It wouldn't make sense, for her voice to be so low, but no one ever sang with you besides her. "But I can't trace time." You never sing in front of people. Perhaps your dire need for support made you forget that you had a guest at all. There's tears in your eyes as you turn promptly, surprised to see him looking so... clean cut. Bringing your hand up to your eye, you quickly brush away the tears and laugh uncomfortably. 

"You know Bowie?" You ask, swallowing back any leftover emotion. Obviously noticing the stray tear on your cheek, he smiles sympathetically. "I used to sing that to my little bro. Couldn't have him growin' up on the same pop bullshit everyone else was, y'know?" Good answer. You grin at him, almost forgetting how sad you were a moment ago. "What other music do you like?" He sits down and assumes a 'Thinker' position, resting his elbow on his knee and his palm on his chin. Bro looks almost cute like that, his lower lip all pouty like he was trying to concentrate really hard. Really, he's a very attractive man when he doesn't reek of city sidewalk and greasy hair. Finally, he speaks. "I like Bowie, obviously. And the classic rap I grew up with. I know 90s rap sounds stupid now, but it was really rad at the time. Hell, it's still super cool in the right context." He points to a crown tattoo on his shoulder with the words 'Hypnotize me' underneath it. "Biggie smalls was my favorite. This is a tribute to him." Bro looks pretty proud about that tattoo. It's clearly one of the nicer ones, a less homemade piece of ink. "I like electro, too. I used to DJ, back in high school. It was like a hobby. A healthy habit." 

"Healthier than drugs, anyway." You immediately regret the comment, thinking it was perhaps insensitive. Thankfully, he just laughs. "Way healthier." 

From there, he continues talking about music he likes. He mentions some other hobbies he has, such as sewing and puppeteering. You never would've guessed. "Those are a secret. Don't tell any of the homeless dudes around here, I'd lose all my hard-earned street cred." Bro explains a couple more tattoos, but intentionally avoids talking about some of them. The handprint over his chest, as well as a few strange symbols and words in Spanish, he does not explain. You decide it's best not to be nosy. After talking for a while about his life, the abridged version, you decide you have to be open with him, too. You tell him a bit about your mom, and about the song you were playing. He listens quietly, reaching forward and patting you on the shoulder when you're finished. Apparently he could tell you weren't super comfortable talking about this, because he just nods and says "I bet she loved you a whole lot, John." 

It was the perfect response. 

He doesn't seem okay with talking about his family, so you avoid the topic. The two of you sit there and talk for a good two and a half hours, the topics getting more serious as the medicine kicks in and his fever goes down. By 11 o'clock, the two of you are laughing and joking and chatting like you've been friends for years. 

Bro reminds you of someone, but you can't place it. Not yet. 

He's just finished telling you a dirty joke he learned in prison when you interject. "Bro, do you wanna live with me?" His jaw drops and for a second, you think he's going to pass out. You're about to jump up to fan him or something when he speaks. "Are you sure about that, kid? Bein' roomies with a scumbag like me?" You punch him in the arm. "You're not a scumbag. You did shitty things but you're not a shitty person, so don't give me that. Yes or no, dude. I can support you, help you get a job and get back on your feet. Someone like you deserves better than a doorway." It's silent for a moment. Bro looks as if he's near tears, taking in deep, shaky breath after deep, shaky breath. 

After what feels like an eternity, his nervous breaths turn into words. "Yes, John. I'd love to live here." He starts babbling about how he'll take the couch, it'll only be a couple nights, he can find his own food when you shush him. "My grandma was kind of loaded. I can pay for shit, it's really no big deal." Again, he starts rambling. This time it's about how he hates pity and charity, which is a legitimate argument. "It's not charity. Charity is me giving you the world and asking for nothing in return." He looks at you, confused. Before he can start with another tirade, you continue. "I hate living alone. I don't have any friends in the area. I take buses to work and I get mugged or pick pocketed kind of often. While you're not looking for work, I want you to look after me. Not like a bodyguard, or anything. More like... a friend with muscles that can be used if necessary." He snorts.

"That's not askin' much. A home and food and a cute roommate in return for me makin' sure you don't get your ass beat on the 32? Damn, it's like I won the lottery." Bro smiles, and you do too. After a quick, peaceful silence, you raise your hand with your index finger up, as if to make a one. "There's house rules, y'know." He leans in, listening. "One. Do your own dishes and wash your own clothes." Second finger goes up. "Two. Don't bring girls or guys or whoever over without asking first. I don't care if you wanna hook up in your own room, but give me some warning." While Rose was, in many ways, a great roommate, she had some flaws. Bringing her girlfriend over at two in the morning and fucking on the couch was one of them. She's lucky you and Kanaya get along. You stick up your ring finger as if making either a Girl Scout swear or a three. "Three. No peanuts. I'm like, super allergic. I'm a total prankster and I'm always up for a good trick, but if there's peanuts anywhere in this house I could die." You make sure he knows this is serious by keeping a straight expression on your face, and he nods earnestly. 

His answer makes you laugh. "I've never killed a man, kid, and I sure don't plan on changing that with the help of some fuckin' trail mix." It's kind of a funny thing to say, but he looks so serious while saying it. Maybe this is just the way he talks - in silly analogies and smilies and other literary devices you learned in the fifth grade. If he starts speaking in palindromes you'll fucking lose it. "Besides, I'd never hurt such a cute boy who saved me from -" His voice goes down at least three octaves, and he makes it waver like in a scary movie. "-ceeeertain death." You laugh, a stupid little giggle that you've always been self conscious about. Immediately, you cover your mouth in embarrassment. "Shit," He says, leaning forward to look closer at you. "Hittin' on you ain't against house rules, right? Because if so, I'm gonna have a mighty hard time bein' obedient." 

Whoa, what?

Hitting on you? Being obedient? Hard time?

There's a whole lot of thoughts going through your head but most of them have to do with imagining making out with Bro. Oops. Pushing away all the daydreams you can, you rest your chin on your fist as if being very thoughtful. "Well, let's see. Rule one was clean up after yourself. Rule two was don't have sex with people I don't know on my couch." You pause, smiling to yourself. "Or people I do know. That would be weird, too." Letting out a quiet chuckle, you continue. "Rule three was no peanuts. That's it, so... no, hitting on me is not against the rules." Nervously, you clear your throat before saying something VERY smooth. 

"That, in fact, is encouraged." 

He grins widely. 

"This is gonna be a beautiful partnership, kid."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bro learns how to act like a grown up with the help of a nineteen year old kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna say 'thanks for 666 hits ♤' but by the time I finished writing this chapter, I was at 670! thank you for all the hits and kudos (kudoses?) and comments and bookmarks!! it means a lot!

==> Be the grown-ass man who's acting like an adult for the first time ever.

Here's why you're lucky: you could've died that night. You could've frozen solid on the street and the only person who would've cared would be John. At that time, you didn't even know the kid as anything more than a cute face and a friendly smile. You certainly didn't expect him to save your life, but he did. He stuck his fucking neck out and helped you, knowing full well that you could kill him and steal his stuff and run off as quickly as you could make a hot pocket. 

And you're really damn speedy at making hot pockets.

(You do this thing where you let them defrost a little first so they cook faster. It's very efficient.)

You're lucky because not only do you have a home, but you have a friend. A real cute one, too, which is almost too good to be true. It's been a month, and only now are you adjusting, believing that this isn't some fever dream, understanding that sometimes people really are just...

Good.

That's what John is. He's good. He's a genuinely good person and you feel incredibly blessed to have met him. Since that night, you've called him 'Angel'. You pass off the vaguely romantic pet name as just "Somethin' we do in the south." and he seems to buy it. He calls you handsome on occasion and it makes your heart flutter more than you'd likely admit. You've never been the type of guy to get crushes or anything like that. All your life, you've focused more on first dates (with no follow up) with girls who you'd take home and fuck and never see again. It was only after highschool that you started coming to terms with your sexuality, and when you met Jake you thought he might be the one. 

That bi-curious little shit was not, in fact, 'the one'. He'd sing to you in Spanish and kiss you, hard and sweet and needy, but he didn't make your heart flutter like John does. John doesn't make you swoon by flirting or bending over to 'pick up a penny'. He doesn't try too hard to be sexy or attractive. All he does is make you laugh and smile, and he gives you a chance to talk about your life rather than force down the memories. 

John's love for music inspired you to start DJing again, and he even hooked you up with a place to work as you look for a permanent gig. John found a list online of places that hire people who've been in prison, and you ended up getting hired at JoAnn's. There's an old lady there who's helping you get back into sewing. She also hits on you a lot, which is a very welcome confidence boost. Coming home to John every night is nice, too. He always cooks up something nice and he's starting to accept the money you give him to chip in on rent and food money. It feels good to have a steady, if not small source of income. You've been able to buy nice new clothes and shoes, and when you walk down the street you're no longer viewed as a repulsive waste of space. There's a new homeless man living in your corner and you buy him meals and clothing as often as you can. You know from experience that food and clothing is the most helpful thing. Money helps, but it tempts as well. It did for you, anyway. 

You've been clean for two years, but you're still cautious of triggering things. John knows that you can't watch movies that talk about drugs or gangs because it throws you into a panic attack. Before you told him this, the two of you settled down for a movie as you always do on Sunday and Thursday nights. Before, it was just his tradition. Now that he has someone to share it with, he goes all out. Popcorn and dimming the lights and even watching all the fucking commercials. It's very... professional. The first thing you watched was The Outsiders, a movie about rival gangs set in the 1950s. At first, it was fine - but when a kid was attacked and then fought his attacker, killing him, you started to remember. 

You remember landing yourself in the hospital with a stab wound in your belly, the hazy, dreamy feeling of losing drop after drop of blood. You remember your friends running when you fell, one of them getting help and the others trying to save themselves. John noticed you were shaking and he turned the film off and wrapped a blanket around you. Apparently, he used to get panic attacks in high school. Poor thing got bullied real bad and has some pretty painful memories, but even he admits they aren't as bad as yours.

He held you until you stopped trembling, his thin, lanky arms around you as you cried against his shoulder. It's rare for you to cry, and it's not something you like to acknowledge, your emotions. Raised in an environment where emotions meant weakness, you sometimes forget you even have them. You two didn't talk about that night again, and you don't plan to in the near future. 

Since then, movie night has been mainly comedy movies and goofy action flicks. He showed you Con Air and it was so bad, but he was so psyched about it that you pretended it was Oscar-worthy. "It's like a modern-day To Kill a Mockingbird," You exclaimed, smirking at him. "Genius, dude. Totally genius." The way he smiled back was worth watching 115 minutes of Nicolas Cage screaming at nothing. 

For the first time in your life, you have everything you could ever want. A home, a comfortable bed, clothing, food, and a friend. 

Sometimes you think that last thing is what makes the most difference.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sexual frustration is a big problem for John Egbert.
> 
> (and me but that's a diFFERENT STORY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're all great and I love you and I am so sorry this chapter is so long and silly.
> 
> also this is where it gets M rated ok thx

==> Be the legal adult with the libido of a fourteen year old with a credit card and an Internet connection.

As far as roommates are concerned, you got lucky with Bro. Well, not like that. Not in the sexual way or anything - just, you know! He's a good roommate! He cleans up after himself and he's very polite. As soon as he had a good enough interview outfit, he went out to look for work. Sure, you helped him a bit, but he pushed just as hard as you were pulling him. It's good to know that you're actually helping him get back on track, and not just housing him for a while. It really does make you feel good, like you've made a difference. Although it's just in one life, you're still rather proud. There's only one problem.

He's really hot. 

Back when he was on the street, dirty and tired and hungry, it wasn't very obvious that he was this attractive. You could tell that he was young, under thirty, with olive skin and strong features. It was only after he shaved, got a haircut, and started wearing new clothes that you realized how beautiful he was. He's so sweet, too. For as long as he's lived with you, he's called you "Angel". Although he insists it's a Southern thing, you have a feeling it's a secret thank you for saving him. Every chance he gets, he compliments you. Whether it's on your cooking, or on how nice your piano playing is, or even on the shoes you're wearing, he always finds something to say that makes you feel all...

Fluttery. 

That's really the best thing to describe it. He makes your heart jump when he touches you, which is rather often. It's likely that frequent touches and too-long hugs aren't common among roommates, but you've known him for two months now and you feel like it's been way longer. He told you his name a while ago - Broderick, last name not important - but you still call him Bro. Just Bro, just like he told you when you first met. Sometimes, you call him "Sugar". When he asked why, you explained that it's because he's "just so sweet." Then you winked and felt very smooth. Angel and Sugar. It sounds like a porn, honestly, this whole situation. It isn't, though - no, not yet. 

And therein lies the problem. 

As much fun as it is to have him hug you from behind or pet your hair when you're cooking dinner, as great as it is to hear him say good night when you go to bed and good morning when you leave for work or school, as cozy as it is to rest your head on his shoulder during movie night,

You want more. 

You want him to take you out on dates, to share milkshakes with you, to take walks with you and hold your hand. You want him to kiss you on the cheek when he gets home from work, you want to adopt a dog with him, you want to cuddle him in bed until you both fall asleep in each other's arms. You want him to claim you, you want him to mark up your neck and chest with hickeys, to bend you over his knee and spank you, to fuck you and make you scream. 

One of these things is not like the other?

It's that last selection of thoughts that occupies your mind once you're in bed. Only after you're sleepy enough to forget that you should not be having such thoughts about your roommate can you indulge them. The walls are thin and you can hear him groan as he stretches and works out in his room at night, you can hear him toss and turn in bed and you can almost imagine that he's under the covers with you. 

Last night was a 'I just want my roommate to fuck me against a wall' kind of night and you decided to indulge those wishes - at least, you indulged them in your head. For the first time in a while, you pulled out your vibrator and were pleased to see that the batteries were in complete working order. It'd been a long time and god, you were tight. You imagined him fingering you as you did the same, imagined him commenting on how good you felt and _fuck_ , that's hot, that's so fucking hot, and your hand moved down at that point to tend to the boner that was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable in your boxers. Your mind is cluttered with run on sentences that only contain his name, or at least, the nicknames you both prefer to call him. Bro, Sugar, Bro, Bro, Master - 

Well, you don't call him that one to his face. That last name is a secret that you'll likely never tell anyone except the people who subscribe to your porn blog. (It's far easier to hide than a folder sneakily titled 'meme pictures XD' or a flashdrive that contains every weird kink you have.) When you're alone in your bed at night, you think about calling him that name. You imagine him calling you 'kitten' and putting a collar around your neck. It wouldn't be hard for him to take that role. He's strong and dominant and very protective over you, all while being kind and charming. 

He'd be great at it, you think. 

Last night, though, your imagination stayed relatively vanilla. The two of you are watching a movie, he kisses you, you kiss back, he kisses you somewhere lower and lower and oh, fuck, he's sucking your cock and fingering you and rubbing at your chest and touching you and holding you and it's really, really nice. 

When you came, you moaned his name a little louder than usual. 

_"Bro!"_

He had a hard day at work, yesterday, though. There's no way he was awake to hear you. He'd been so tired when he went to bed that his nightly "Sweet dreams, angel," was groggy and so quiet you barely heard him. There was no doubt in your mind that he was fast asleep when you finished.

In the next room, Bro was curled up in bed with his ear pressed to the wall. He listened as you touched yourself, moaning his name whimpering for Bro to fuck you harder. Damn. Before tonight, Bro had been unsure if he should pursue you more seriously. The two of you do flirt a lot, but it's like walking on eggshells to date your new roommate. This decided it, though. Tomorrow was movie night, and that's when he'd make his move. 

\-----  
About nineteen hours later, the two of you are curled up on the couch and watching _50 First Dates_. Not a huge favorite of yours, but romantic comedies can be fun sometimes. Bro seems to be liking it, too. He keeps smirking during the makeout scenes, like he knows something you don't. It might just be him goofing around again. The two of you do that a lot. It's been really fun having him here. You're much less lonely now, but that doesn't change the fact that you kind of want to smooch his face a lot. Drew Barrymore says something funny and you laugh loudly, the same silly giggle that you're sure Bro's completely sick of. (He loves it.) Bro looks down at you and smiles. Instead of the usual cocky smirk, it's a real smile. That's weird for sure, but also really sweet. Adam and Drew kiss onscreen and his hand covers your eyes. "Whoa, lil' man. This is a little adult for you, don't you think?" He looks down at you, all proud of his stupid joke, but you aren't about to let him win. "I do the cooking and shit, so, uh. I'm a grown up! And you cannot mock me." 

He stares blankly at you for a moment before laughing out loud. "That was the worst comeback ever, dude. Sorry." You huff a little in response, crossing your arms. "Aw, angel. Don't get your panties in a bunch, I'm just fuckin' around." Before you have a chance to reply, his finger is hooked underneath your chin. "I still don't know if you can handle all this kissin', though. Wouldn't want your teenage hormones givin' you a hard-on at the sight of Adam Sandler's smooch-fest with his lady." That comment embarrasses you more than it should. It's silly to get flustered over something like that, but it doesn't help that he's really close to you. Finally, you speak. "I can handle kissing just fine, sugar." His eyebrows raise and he smiles with all his teeth showing. He looks like a fucking tiger or something. "You sure about that?" Bro croons, moving his face closer to yours. By now, your face is only a half an inch away from his. Is he gonna kiss you? There's a really good chance that he's gonna kiss you. Licking your lips in preparation, you nod slowly. 

After a moment's hesitation, his lips connect with yours. The fireworks that go off in your head rival the ones at Disneyland on the Fourth of July.

You kiss him right back and you swear you see Drew Barrymore wink at you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inexperience usually isn't bliss, but this time it ain't bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not updating for a couple days! my internet's been super wonky.  
> thanks for 1100 hits!!!

==> Be the man swooning over a nineteen year old. 

The moment you kiss him, his hands cup your face and he's so _warm_ and _soft_ and _perfect_. How you ever got this lucky, you'll never know. Everything about this situation is amazing. Not only did this boy save you from certain death on a lonely sidewalk, but he clothed you, fed you, and took care of you. John's helped you find work and hell, he's even tutoring you so you can get your GED. 

Although you currently have no idea how, you know you'll make it up to him someday. Tickets to see Nic Cage live or something. (That toolbag _must_ do live shows of him whispering really loudly for three straight hours. If he doesn't, he's missing a great money making opportunity.) Of course, you could always just make him feel like the most special little shit in the world. That sure is a lot less outlandish than sitting through Nic Cage Live!, a thing you just made up. John's more than a little important to you and you want to give him the world.

So when he kisses back, eager and earnest, you can't help but smile. Damn, he's a catch. He may call _you_ sugar, but he's the sweet one. You pull him onto your lap as he kisses you, enjoying how his small body feels in your arms. After a moment, he pulls away and looks quizzically at Drew Barrymore before resting his forehead on yours. He looks into where he assumes your eyes are and grins, slowly reaching up and removing your shades. This would normally really piss you off, but if anyone deserves to see your eyes, it's John. 

"Wow, sugar. You're so pretty without the anime shades." John laughs, a sunny little chuckle that makes you feel like you're floating. "Not that you weren't pretty before, of course." Seems he doesn't want to discuss relationship logistics right now, which is fine with you. As worried as you are that this might just be a one-time thing for him, you don't want to have a serious discussion in the middle of makeouts. That has a tendency to kill the mood. You pet his hair, murmuring to him as he admires your (quite average, in your opinion,) face. "You're too kind, angel. Really." Grabbing the remote, you turn off the television and lean in to kiss him again. This time, it's a bit more eager and a bit less romantic. He doesn't seem to mind, and he kisses back as you hold him tightly to you. 

After your mouths get acquainted, you move your lips down to his neck and you bite down sharply, sucking at his skin. As soon as you start ravaging his throat, though, you worry that he may dislike biting and shit. You look up at him and speak in a hushed, quick tone. "Baby, is biting okay?" His face is as pink as a neon posterboard that you used to use for science projects, but he nods. "Biting is _definitely_ okay," He stammers, tilting his head to give you easier access to his neck. You flash him a toothy, predatory grin before moving down and biting hard on his throat. Apparently, he's wanted this as much as you have, because he keeps fucking whimpering your name and panting as you mark up his neck. You hear him mutter something unintelligible under his breath and you stop, checking to be sure he's okay. "John, what'd you just say? Everything goin' alright up there?" Slowly, John's eyes open and he looks down at you. He looks horribly nervous but also really blissful, so you figure he's alright. Finally, he says something you can understand.

"Mark me." 

His voice is nervous and soft, and his chest is heaving as he speaks. John's face is flushed with embarrassment and you're damn sure he's pretty inexperienced in the category of hooking up, but that isn't a problem. Upon hearing his request, your eyes grow wide and you kiss him softly on the lips. Seems he's a little kinkier than you initially expected.

That is definitely not a problem.

Making a quick decision to test his limits, you lean up and croon something in his ear. "Listen, baby. If you call me 'Master', I'll do whatever the fuck you want." You pet his hair, scratching lightly behind his ears like you would a kitten. He nods, smiling widely and whispering back, "Okay, Master." 

Hearing him say that sounds so much better than you ever imagined it could. Following his request, you tug down on the collar of his shirt and kiss his chest. He's pale and pretty, and you're excited to see what he'll look like all covered in bruises. Nipping gently at his collarbone, you push his shirt up and rub at his nipple. Some guys hate that and some like it, but judging by the way he's moaning he's the latter. "Fuck, Master," He whines, pulling you closer to him. This boy is horny as fuck. Seems John's moaning was indeed meant for you. Turning, you lay him down on the couch and climb on top of him. By now, his shirt is mostly off anyway, so you just finish the job and pull his shirt off over his head. John moans for you, saying your name and 'Master' over and over and god, it's the sexiest damn thing. 

You scratch his back roughly, murmuring into his ear. "I heard you touching yourself last night, baby." He seizes up, embarrassed and stuttering out an excuse. "That was, uh. I was groaning 'cause I hit my, um. Arm! My arm, and," You cut off his babbling with a kiss, pulling away and biting your lip. "Don't lie, baby. I don't like boys who lie." When you say that, he seems to melt. His eyes flutter closed and he grinds his hips down against yours. At that moment, you realize how fucking hard you both are. "Babydoll, tell me what you wanna do. I'm cool with anything, but Lil' Jon seems pretty excited." He'd better appreciate the nickname you just bestowed upon his dick, because that joke was fucking _golden_. He laughs and smiles down at you. "That's already what I named it, dork." John pets your hair and he looks so cute, like he's glowing, and you're smitten. You are totally fucking smitten with this little angel. 

He's so adorable that you just wanna wreck him - in the most loving and respectful way possible, of course. 

When he gets all snappy, though, you punish him a little. Your fingernails rake throbbing, red marks down his back and he squirms. "Master!" John sounds a little peeved, but you lift a finger to his lips to shoosh him. "Don't talk back, boy." He nods, whimpering quietly before answering your earlier question. "I'm not gonna lie, I'm really fucking turned on. I wanna help you get rid of that boner and I want you to help with mine, please." That's good enough for you. Before you reposition yourself to get down to business, you ask him something else. "Baby, how, uh. Experienced are you?" 

He gets quiet, especially compared to how loud he was earlier. "Uh. Not at all." He mutters, apparently too anxious to say it louder than a whisper. You take a deep breath. "Angel, I'mma feel mighty bad if I take your virginity before you're ready. We're gonna take it slow, 'aight, little one? If you wanna continue this at all, anyway." Damn, you really hoped you wouldn't have to have this conversation. It's nervewracking, though, to know that you're his 'first'. The concept of virginity always felt stupid to you. What did it matter when or how you lost it? Personally, you were fourteen. She was sixteen. You fucked behind the high school and afterward, you cried. It was the most physical contact you'd had in years and you hated every second of it. See, that girl didn't make you feel like John makes you feel. She didn't make you feel like every moment that you spent together went way too quickly, she didn't make you feel like you were walking on air. She was just some girl who craved the physical attention as much as you did. You don't want to be 'just some guy' to John. Your virginity never really mattered to you, but John's matters a lot - to you, anyway. His voice cuts off your rambling train of thought and it derails, falling gracefully off a steep cliff, as he says "I don't want this to be a one time thing, I want to be yours."

Yes, you're falling alright. And you've never felt better.

You kiss him again, cradling his head in your palm and smiling sweetly before moving down. "Good, angel. Same here." John smiles, face red but a lot less nervous than it was before. Slowly, you lower yourself onto the floor, in front of the couch and between his legs. His button and zipper are a hassle, mainly because your hands are fumbling and nervous, but you get them off soon enough. He's really hard and not very big, but not too small for your liking. It isn't like he was gonna fuck you anyway, so it really doesn't matter. Besides, he's got a cute lil' cock and as soon as you see it, you want it in your mouth. Precum has gathered in a bead at his tip and you're sure he tastes fantastic, bitter and salty and strong. Before you start, you look up at him to be sure it's alright. He nods quickly, breathing hard. You pat his thigh and whisper to him that it's alright, don't be nervous. After he's visibly more relaxed, you lean forward and take the tip of him in your mouth. Your lips close around the head and you suck gently, lapping up the precum with your tongue. You've learned from experience that cum rarely tastes good, but John's is almost pleasant. Perhaps it's because you actually care about the person you're blowing for once. Because of this, you put your all into it. You want to make him cum. You want to see his face when he finishes with the help of someone else for the first time, too. Lowering yourself, you manage to take him in to the hilt. 

He's moaning like a cat in heat (Do cats in heat moan all sexy like this? That would actually be hella creepy.) and you smile, proud that you can get him to do this. You pull away to look at him, grinning. "Baby, you're such a cute lil' twink." You croon, reaching up and petting his hair. John's about to reply when you go back, licking up and down his length before taking him in your mouth again. Although you had worried that you would be out of practice, he's pretty easy to deepthroat. Thank god. Gagging after acting all cocky and confident would've looked really pathetic, and you can't have that happen on your first time with John. He's special. You want to pamper him and worship him and make him feel loved and happy, because that's what he deserves. Fuck, the kid saved your life. At the very least he deserves a quality blow job. 

Hollowing your cheeks, you suck and lick his cock. You cup his balls in one hand, massaging them gently, while your other hand rests on his leg to comfort him. First is stressful, and you want him to know that he's safe and he can always pull away. You certainly hope he doesn't want to pull away, but you aren't going to be mad if he does. "Master," He groans, breathing shallow and quick. John's getting really close, and the sounds he's making are turning you on even more. Jeans have never been more uncomfortable. Keeping one hand on his leg, you slide the other down to unbutton your jeans. Agonizingly slowly, you ease your cock out of your pants and boxers and stroke it slowly. He notices and shakes his head. "Master, I wanna do it for you." He's so earnest and concerned about your goddamn boner, it's adorable. Who knew someone could be so caring to a literal dick? What a sweetheart. You smile and squeeze his leg, pulling away from his cock to speak. "Babydoll, it's fine. You get to finish first, then you can help your Master. Aight?" After hesitating a moment, he nods and you get back to work. The sudden stimulation after even a short break seemed incredibly intense to him, because he gets a bit shaky and whimpers a little louder. 

Usually, you'd be mad that you weren't giving any warning before there was spunk in your mouth. John's lucky he's adorable when he cums, because otherwise you woulda slapped him. He really is precious, though. His voice gets all high and he says your name(s) over and over, "Derick, Master, Master, Bro," until they turn to gibberish. Afterwards, he gets all limp and doesn't even reply when you ask him how that was. John just nods, slow and sluggish, and you climb back onto the sofa to lie down next to him. By now, you're ridiculously hard, but you don't want to bother John for help. Poor thing seems exhausted. You kiss his forehead sweetly, petting his damp, sweaty hair. "Babydoll, you did so good. So good. D'you wanna help me, or do you wanna go to sleep? I can take care of it. Lord knows I got plenty of jerk off material." He shakes his head and sits up. "I wanna help."

You wrap your arms around him and pull him into a seated position, taking his hand in yours and placing it on your erection. "Dude, you're kinda..." John stammers, eyes wide. "Big. Like, pornstar big." That comment makes you laugh and you ruffle his hair. "Hope that's a good thing," you chime, and he nods. "Definitely not a bad thing." His hand wraps around your cock and he pumps slowly, staring into your eyes the whole time. His cheeks are pink, but he's not as shaky as he was before. With his free hand, he grabs you by the shoulder and pulls you close for a kiss. He can taste himself on your lips. John rests his head on your shoulder as he jerks you off and you wrap your arms around him, letting out soft, happy moans. You've never been very loud in bed. You're more used to swearing a lot and grunting like an animal, but you realized recently that doing such things is kind of boorish and you should probably fix it. So now, you settle for little whines and pants as you kiss his neck. His hands are bigger than you'd expect for someone his height. Damn pianist fingers impress you every time. First, it was his ability to play any song by ear. Now, it's his ability to give a stellar handjob. 

Times sure are changing. 

You kiss him, mouth open and needy and breathless as his hand moves faster. John's so warm and he tastes so sweet, like a candy that you've never had before. Is that cheesy? Yeah. That's pretty damn cheesy. He kinda makes you feel like being cheesy is okay, though. When you cum, you moan his name so loud that you probably wake the neighbors. John beams at you, proud as all hell, before leaning down and licking some cum off your chest. _Damn._

This kid is the handsomest, sweetest, smartest, cutest, wittiest, kinkiest little shit you've ever met, and he's absolutely perfect. You've never been happier, and you aren't sure what sort of saint you were in a past life to deserve this, but you'll take what you can get.


	9. 420

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hits: 1420
> 
> (this is not a real chapter)

"john" bro said "let's smoke some ganja" so they dud a drug and John got high and they made a sex and john quoted boku no pico more than should be humanly possible and it was great "ur dick is the bomb.com" John whispered into bro's butt

 

(I'm going to update today this is my way of apologizing for being lazy and also thanking you all for 1420 hits i appreciate it so much. the experience of writing a fic has been made so much better by all of you! so thank you, so much. cute shit is coming today.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're just really, really happy at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops updating every day is hard.

==> Be the curious boy who really hopes this wasn't just a one-time thing, holy shit.

"What's that one?"  
"Gang symbol."  
"That one there?"  
"Represents my little brother."  
"And that one?"  
"I think that's a freckle."  
"Is that a name?"  
"I was really drunk."  
"What's that one? I like that one."  
"Babe, that's an eagle. There's no other meaning. It's just a bird."

You frown at him. "I thought tattoos were supposed to have some sort of special meaning." You mumble, poking him in the chest. "Not when you're 20 years old and a fucking idiot whose friend has a tattoo gun." Derick kisses you on the forehead, smiling as he brushes the hair out of your eyes. Tattoo talk, you realize, is quite fun when your partner is covered in ink. The two of you lay in bed and talk about him, about all (or almost all) the things he was too shy to tell you before. He tells you about his little brother, who he just calls 'My lil' bro', and how they got separated when Bro aged out. It breaks your heart a bit. He tears up when he talks about his brother and you lean your head on his shoulder, running your fingers through his hair. Bro talks for a long time about these things. Some stuff, like his parents and his childhood, he doesn't mention. As far as you know, his life didn't really begin until he was ten and he and his brother were taken by CPS. His story sounds a lot like Dave's, but that would be ridiculous, so you don't mention it. You'll introduce the two of them eventually, but there's no need to get either of their hopes up.

When you first saw him on the street, you remember thinking how sweet he looked. He wasn't scary or intimidating, just nice and sort of sad looking. Now, he's hopeful and sweet and gentle and happy. You like to think, at least, that he's happy now. Bro certainly _seems_ happy. In the middle of a sentence, he turns to you and kisses you square on the lips. This same man just had his mouth around your cock, but for some reason this gesture has you more flustered than ever. "Yer cute." He muses, running his thumb across your jaw. It's so silly, the way he makes you feel. Fuck, you're nineteen! This is some teen crush level bullshit. None of that is important now, though. There's something you need to talk about with him. 

"What are we?"

He tenses up a little and looks at you, running his fingers through your hair. "Boyfriends. If you wanna be." Honestly, that wasn't the answer you expected. Mid-makeout, you'd told him that you wanted to be his and he sounded pretty cool with that. It doesn't hurt to ask again, though, and he makes you glad you did. You smile and nod, taking his face in your hands and kissing him on the nose. "I wanna be. But only if you promise to cuddle me a lot and not make fun of me if-slash-when I cry at movies." Bro nods and pulls you onto his lap. The two of you cleaned all the nasty sticky mess already, so you don't have to worry about getting all gross. You rest your head on his shoulder and he marvels about all the things you're going to do together. 

"Now that you're mine," He remarks, tilting his head as he thinks. "We can do couple stuff. I mean, we were already pretty damn gay with each other, but now we can hold hands in public and kiss on park benches. D'you wanna kiss on park benches?" Nodding rapidly, you grin and wrap your arms around his shoulders. "And I can grind up on you when I'm doing a gig. I was always so jealous of the DJs with a hot babe by their side." The idea of freaking with your boyfriend in front of a crowd makes you a little nervous, but it's also hot as fuck. "What else?" He asks, smiling warmly at you. This time, it's your turn. "Hm. I want you to meet my friends. They live kinda far, so it'd be over Skype. Less pressure that way, too." Derick seems to like that idea. He always does get nervous around new people. Trust issues. That reminds you of how impressive it is that he's letting down his walls like this. It's actually... really nice. It's nice to be trusted by someone like him. After all, he's your boyfriend now. It'd be weird if he didn't trust you, but you ever really expected him to! It's pretty suspicious to invite a random stranger, feverish and vulnerable, into your home. You thought he'd run after a couple days, but instead, he's stayed. You plan to do the same for him.

After a moment, he closes his eyes and nestles his face into the crook of your neck. "Baby, you make me really happy. But you knew that already, right?" That's a definite yes. He's such a doll, holy shit. And nice and kinky too. If you weren't smarter than that, you'd say you loved him. Which you do, in a way. It just isn't 'In Love' yet. It's true, though, that he means more to you than you ever expected. From the day you met, you knew he'd make an impact on your life - but at the time, you had no idea the impact would be this big. He's like an asteroid or something, crashing right onto the corner by your apartment building and like, breaking windows and shit.

Are there community college classes on how to make better analogies? You'll have to check the catalogue in the morning. 

Out of the blue, he looks up at you. His eyes are wide and excited, and he looks about as gleeful as a kid on Christmas. Or Hanukkah, depending on their religious upbringing. Derick asks if you'd like to take a shower or a bath or something and you say yes. He stands and scoops you up like a silly nineteenth century bride. Both of you are naked, and you aren't nearly as embarrassed as you figured you'd be in this position. All your young adult life, you imagined what it would be like to be naked in the presence of another person. In your imagination, it was horrifying. They'd nitpick all your features, saying you had strange nipples or oddly shaped hipbones or something. That is, of course, just your low self-esteem talking. Your boyfriend makes you a lot less afraid of that. He compliments you, but not too much. It doesn't seem like he's trying too hard. He sets you down in the tub and gets the water running, forgetting to turn the shower off so cool water sprays on your face. Bro gawks at you, looking as if he's afraid you're going to hit him or get mad at him. You just laugh, grinning and wiping the water away from your eyes.

He climbs in next to you and washes your back and chest the way you washed his the first time he stepped foot into this apartment. Beaming with pride, he kisses you on the forehead and you nearly melt.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bro and John meet what's left of each other's families.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll be updating every other day or so. I'm graduating in ~3 weeks so I have a lot on my plate.  
> thanks for all the love!

==> Bro: Meet the family.

It's mid-January and John says he wants you to meet someone. The two of you have been together for about a month, and it's been a little over two months since he took you in. Not a whole lot of time, but you've grown incredibly close as of late. It helps to be sleeping in the same bed. Lately, you've been in an exceptional mood. 

Part if it has to do with finally getting a steady gig, but it's mostly because of John.

It sounds silly, but you love that boy more than anything. When he comes home every night from class, he does that stupid "Honey, I'm home!" cliché greeting and you adore it. Every once in a while, you wait by the door and pounce on him mid-sentence like in Calvin & Hobbes. You swoop him up into your arms and kiss him hard on the lips, causing his eyes to go wide in surprise as his sheet music flutters to the floor. 

It's fucking adorable how excited he gets when he has a new song to play you. Once, he got really angry with you for playing 'Ni**as in Paris' too loudly in the morning. Apparently it isn't his ideal alarm clock, especially when it's eight AM on his day off. 

Oops.

The two of you argued and he really pissed you off by saying that Asian kids should be allowed to say 'nigga'. You told him to "try that racist bullshit in a Los Angeles prison" and get back to you with the results. He did not find that very amusing. After reading some articles on the Internet about racism or something, (as well as doing some secret research) he left his room and sat down at the piano. Without another word, that little angel performed 'Ni**as in Paris' on fucking piano. You didn't think that was possible.

It was the most beautiful thing you ever heard.

You may have cried a little. 

The point of all that is that while you have fought before, it's rare. John is your best friend and your family and you adore him. You haven't said 'I love you' yet, but you plan to soon. When he told you he wanted you to meet some of his family, you figured you were at the step where saying 'I love you' would be acceptable. Of course, you aren't planning on doing it in front of whatever family member he wants you to make the acquaintance of. That's way too much stress. You've always hated those big proposals during baseball games and shit. What if they say no? How fucking humiliating is that?

None of that is really what is currently on your mind, though. You can't stop wondering who it is John wants you to meet. His dad lives on the other side of the state, and he doesn't have any cousins or aunts or uncles. It's very confusing. Hopefully he knows this and he'll explain soon - but as you both get in the car and he begins driving without a word of where you're off to, you realize he isn't going to say a thing. He chats idly with you as he makes his way to wherever you're going, telling you that "She's going to love you," and that you have nothing to worry about. _She?_ That rules out his dad, apparently, leaving... no one else.

The incense in the backseat should've been a good clue, but you didn't notice it. 

The two of you pull into a small cemetery and at first, you're confused.

Then you remember his mom. 

"John," You sputter, trying to think of the right thing to say. Before you can utter another word, however, he cuts you off. "Don't. I just want you to meet her, okay?" Instead of babbling like an idiot, you just nod. Both of you step out of the car and you leave your shades and hat on your seat. Can't have your boyfriend's mom seeing you all covered up and mysterious. She deserves better than that. 

He leads you to her grave and you stand behind him as he kneels and lights incense. It's cold and John is shivering, but he doesn't stop prepping the gravesite. He murmurs something in Vietnamese under his breath and you just barely hear him. Of course, you don't understand a word. " _Anh nhớ em, mẹ. Tôi sẽ nhìn thấy bạn trong một thời gian._ " (He tells you later that it means 'I miss you, mom. I'll see you in a while.') The dates on the grave show that she died this day, ten years ago. Ten years is a pretty big milestone and it's a huge honor that he wants you to be here. He stands and turns to you, asking if you want to say anything. 

You're on your hands and knees, bowing to the ground all before he finishes his question. "Ma'am. Thank you so much for having such a lovely son. He's my world, you see, and," Shit, are you tearing up? You're only meeting the deceased parent of the love of your life. It's really not _that_ emotional, geez. "And I don't think I'd be alive without him. You did a real good job, Ma'am, and I'm honored to get to meet you." You reach out and touch the gravestone, tracing over her name with your fingertip. Standing slowly, you thank her again before turning to look at John.

He's crying.

You've never seen him cry before and you have no fucking idea how to handle it oh my god. 

He steps forward and hugs you, burying his face in your shirt. Of course, you don't hesitate to hug back, wrapping your arms around him as the two of you crumble to the ground. You hold John as he cries, rocking him back and forth. "I'm fine," He stammers, wrapping his arms around your neck. "Seriously, I'm fine, I just," It sounds as if he's trying to say something but can't quite get the words out. "Babydoll?" You inquire, petting his hair. Out of nowhere, he looks up at you and kisses you square on the mouth. Finally, he speaks. "I'm in love with you." 

Well.

That's a nice surprise. 

You pick him back up onto his feet and hold his hand. "I'm in love with you too. Didn't wanna say it in front of your mom, though. Not unless you said it first. Thought it'd be awkward if you turned me down in front of her." Turning slightly, you smile at the gravestone. "Thanks for letting me come n' meet her, sweetness." John nearly melts, crying and holding tightly onto your shirt. He's always so strong, always trying to defeat the stereotype of the delicate little shota boy, and he always succeeds. Even now, you don't view him as weak. He's allowed to cry when he's at his mom's grave. It's obvious that the tears aren't all sad ones, though. John is happy with you. He's thankful that you're here and he's in love with you and goddamn, you're the most at peace you've ever been.

The two of you drive home and he insists on holding your hand the whole way. At first you were worried about him driving with one hand, but John proves to be an excellent driver even when he's a bit emotional. You squeeze his hand and resist the urge to start kissing him while he's driving, because you know that's dangerous. He starts to drive home but you stop him. "You showed me somethin' special, let me give you something in return." With that, you start directing him towards a restaurant that you haven't been to in years. Some of your old prison buddies work there now and you think John would love it. "It's a food place. Real good stuff. I got friends who work there. No peanuts in this type of food, either." John smiles at you, nodding as he follows your directions. He always gets really happy when you remember little details about him that other people seem to forget. 

The two of you finally make it and you hold his hand as you enter, admittedly a little nervous of what your friends will think of John. You haven't seen them in a year and you're anxious to talk to them again. 

The moment you walk into the restaurant, a chorus of "Ey, guero!" chimes around the room. They remember you. Most of them are Latino, but your blond hair and olive skin makes you stick out. That's also the cause for your nickname - 'guero' is Mexican slang for a Latino guy with light hair. Letting go of John's hand for a moment, you go up and hug your friends Gonzalo and Carlos. "Ey, huevo!" You shout at the former, laughing and smacking him on the back. Gonzalo's always been chubby and egg-shaped, hence the nickname. Carlos is a big guy and pretty intimidating, so you figure John's gonna be a little scared. "Babydoll," You whisper, going back to him and leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. "These guys are my friends. I know they're kinda big and scary and shit, but they're real nice, and -" 

He cuts you off. 

"They don't scare me. They remind me of you, and they're your friends, so I know I'm gonna love them." John kisses you back and takes your arm, walking up to Carlos and sticking out his hand. "My name's John. Nice to meet you." Your friend pauses for a moment before shrugging, apparently impressed with John's manners. "Hey, _zotaco_. Y'can call me Charlie, if you want." You hit Carlos on the shoulder. "Dude, don't call 'im that. He's my _novio_ , be nice." You explain quickly to John that _zotaco_ is slang for 'short guy' or 'shrimp'. John just laughs it off, thank God, and doesn't get offended. In your culture, it's common to give crass nicknames based on appearance. Gonzalo doesn't mind you calling him _huevo_ , but if you called a white guy 'egg-shaped', you'd get your ass kicked. 

Upon hearing the word 'novio' - boyfriend - the guys freeze. John looks a little scared that they'll react badly, but they just hug him. " _Ay dios mio, guero!_ " They cry, ruffling John's hair before you give them a look that says 'Don't touch him.' The men stand and both shake John's hand again before looking him right in the eye and smiling. "You take good care of this _burro,_ alright? He's like a brother to us." Carlos stands straight, clapping his hands together. "Food! Let me make you lovebirds somethin'. On the house." 

You missed these guys.

The four of you eat plantains and steak and flan together and John loves it. He gets along really well with your friends, even though you can tell he's still a bit surprised that they're okay with your relationship. Gonzalo tells you about his wife, Wendí, who he met after he got out. Charlie is still single, and he grumbles a bit about women. John remarks that men aren't much better and he elbows you in the ribs. You laugh and grab him around the waist, shaking him around for a moment and pretend-rough housing with him. Carlos says to you later, "You got a good one, _mijo_. We're so damn proud of you." 

Really, you're proud too. Two and a half months ago you were a recovering addict living on a sidewalk. Now you're working hard and bringing the money home to the best boyfriend the world has ever known. 

Everything about this is a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how obvious is it on a scale of uno to diez that i'm South American.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thinking about sex in class is hardly ever a good idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my name's boo and i'm a kinky little shit.

==> John: think way more about fucking than you should while at school.

You're sitting in your Advanced Music Theory class and all you can think about is your boyfriend. Yesterday you two got pretty frisky during movie night, which you were a little embarrassed about because it was the day after your mom's anniversary. You cut it short, shaking your head and saying that you wanted to wait until tomorrow. 

Tomorrow is today. 

He asked you yesterday if you wanted to go all the way, and you said you weren't sure. "If you aren't sure, then it's a no." Derick smiled at you and kissed your forehead, assuring you that he was just fine with keeping it to blowjobs and the like. It's ridiculous how sweet he is. After successfully making you remember that your boyfriend is the bomb dot com, he informed you that he was gonna make tomorrow night - tonight - special. You asked why, and he just shrugged and said that you deserved it. 

So you're sure he's gonna go all out for you tonight and you can't stop thinking about it. The last time you got a boner in class was in the tenth grade, and you certainly didn't expect it to happen in college. It's hard not to get aroused when you cant stop thinking about his mouth on you, all over you, his oral fixation taking over as he bites and sucks on the skin next to your hips. You're currently wearing hickies there with pride, ones you were forced to stop last night. The second he puts his tongue and teeth on your hipbones, you melt. Just thinking about that is enough to make you ache for him. Because you sit in the back, you manage to sneak out of class and run to the bathroom. He told you to text him whenever you felt the need to jack off, so he could give you permission. (Which is, in your opinion, _really fucking hot_.) Stumbling into a bathroom stall, you sit down on the cover of the toilet and text him. 

'master, i'm thinking about tonight and i'm really fucking hard and help me please.'

To which he texts back,

'babydoll, you're not touching yourself yet. right?'

You groan. He always does this, always questions whether or not you've started already. You haven't, of course. He knows that. It's likely that he just likes messing with you, drawing it out. Sending a picture of your hard-on, accompanied by a photo of you frowning, you wait for his response.

'damn, angel. you don't look happy but your dick sure does.' What a sassy little bastard. 'oh my god, i'm gonna punch you. can i please start?' Within seconds, he texts back.

'finger yourself for master.'

Well, _fuck_. 

You follow his orders, sucking on your middle finger for a moment to wet it before easing it inside you. Since the two of you started dating, you haven't needed your vibrator and damn, you're tight. With your free hand, you text him again. 

'can i ask you something?'

It's shocking that you spelled everything right. The feeling of something inside you was greatly missed, but it's also really strange because it's been so long. You bite your lip to quell any whimpers - you have a tendency to get loud when you even get _close_ to your prostate. Deciding to do him a favor, you film yourself from a rather filthy angle. In the last frame, you tilt the camera up so he can see how hard you're biting your lip. You didn't notice that he's texted back, telling you 'yeah, sugar. ask away.', so you give your reply along with the video.

'can you call me 'kitten'?'

'you're a kinky little spitfire and i love it. yeah, i'll call you kitten. put a collar on your pretty neck and fuck you hard as i wrap my hand around your throat. you like that, kitten?'

You definitely like that. Texting back hastily, you beg for him to let you touch yourself more. It's starting to hurt even though you've only been at it for a few minutes. You used to take longer, but this is likely a side effect of your boyfriend having the same kinks as you. 

He's pumping himself hard and fast, imagining what you'd feel like around his cock. Maybe you'll give him head tonight. He'd love that, love seeing your pretty little mouth on him and god, ohgod, he takes out his phone and sees your text and replies with a video of him quickly nodding and then turning the camera to his crotch. The way his hand is moving is so frantic and needy, you can tell it's all just for your own personal enjoyment. There's something ridiculously sexy about the stick n' poke tattoo just below his hip. It's just one word - 'angel' - and he swears he did it before he moved in. Secretly, you think it was for you. The tattoo was still healing recently and he got bashful when you asked about it. Thinking about this makes you want - _need_ \- to kiss him and touch him and be with him. You tell him that, sending a typo-tastic text message that would make your inner perfectionist faint if he wasn't so turned on. 

'iwanan kiss ydou a lott' It reads, causing him to laugh out loud. He does understand what you mean, though, and he's only slightly surprised when you send a second message. 'wanttyouto tuoch me,. master' For some reason, that sends him over the edge. The mental image of you trembling and fucking yourself in a bathroom stall _slays_ him, makes him cum all over his t-shirt. He doesn't even mind. 

He sends you a photograph of his chest and cock, both covered in his spunk. For you, that's enough to make you finish - but you can't do so without asking first. 'mastercan icum plaes' You type, realizing that typing one-handed is really difficult (especially when your mind is elsewhere). He texts you a succinct 'yes.' and you move your hand faster without missing a beat. It only takes you a moment to finish and when you do, you're forced to clean yourself with toilet paper. It's a small price to pay. You send him a short video of you blowing him a kiss and sucking cum off your finger. 

He saves that video, too, and plans on watching it while you're at work tomorrow. 

You go back to the lecture hall, grab your stuff and bolt. Class was over by the time you got there, and you weren't worried about missing anything. This class is totally easy, and you're sure you can ace it even if you take a short time off to get rid of a boner once in a while.

You hurry home, eager to see him, and you realize when you arrive at the apartment that you forgot your keys. Slightly annoyed at yourself, you knock on the door and wait to see if he's home. 

Derick comes to the door quickly, thank god. It's 4 PM but he seems to have just gotten out of the shower. There's a towel - an unusually _short_ towel - wrapped messily around his waist. Small droplets of water cover his body, and his hair is slicked back and wet. It's really, really sexy, and your horniness from earlier comes right back. "Hi, kitten. You're home a little early." He's grinning at you like a fucking fox, and you know he did this on purpose. You want him to finger you and tell you to cum for him, you want him to bend you over a table and smack your ass and

Your eyes nearly glass over as you imagine all this, your cheeks going red. Stepping forward, you stand on tiptoe to kiss him softly on the lips. "There are so many things that I want you to do to me." He doesn't hesitate to kiss back, smiling wide and predatory. His hands hook under your thighs and he lifts you up, helping you to straddle his waist as he stands. "Special yet?" Bro croons, nipping lightly at your neck. You can only nod, sighing happily as his lips move over your skin. 

It's cold outside and he's so warm and you want him inside you but you know you shouldn't. Now isn't the right time. It's just like he always tells you - you'll know when it's right. 

For the first time, you're fully clothed and he's fully naked. His erection rubs against your ass and you say a silent prayer that he doesn't get cum on your brand-new jeans. It'd wash out, yeah, but the thought of it would get you hard whenever you slipped them on. Before you finish worrying, though, he's carried you into the bedroom and laid you down gently on the mattress. He lets go of you and leaves for a moment, returning with a paper bag. It's full, but you aren't sure with what until he empties it on the bed next to you.

He tells you not to move or get whiny because this may take a while and you know something good's coming. Derick empties the bag slowly, as if trying to take time in revealing his surprise, and before long your bed is covered in goodies. "We didn't get each other Christmas gifts because money was tight, so, uh. I got you some stuff."

The contents of the bag are as follows:  
A nice leather collar with a bell (that you _know_ he probably spent way too much money on.)  
A can of chicken noodle soup (an homage, he says, to your first night together as friends.)  
A few pairs of really nice panties in your size,  
and a glass tail plug (faux fur, he says, because no animal should have to die for kink.)

You ask him if he bought this all today and he shakes his head no, embarrassed. "The soup and underwear I bought today, but I ordered the tail and collar a while back. Guess it was wishful thinking and a helluva lot of good luck that they came in yesterday _and_ you actually like this shit." His bashfulness, combined with how cocky of him it was to buy all that in advance, is pretty cute. You laugh, only a little bit nervous. 

"Make me your kitten, sir." You murmur, intentionally making your voice sound light and airy and naïve. Your master's face flushes and he reaches down, slowly unbuttoning your jeans. 

"There's a good boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry for the 'cliffhanger' of sorts - if I added more smut to this, it would be way too sex-heavy. continuation coming soon.
> 
> PS this might interest you  
> nsfw blog: timid-little-deviant.tumblr.com  
> personal: zillybooradley.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW NSFW NSFW  
> cute sex, john's POV again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not updating lately!

==> Be the same lucky, lucky boy.

You didn't know just how into this he was, but you're ecstatic. He was grinning when you stepped through the door, and he's still smiling as he kisses you. For the first time in a while, you didn't have to swipe his glasses away - they were gone when you arrived. After he's revealed all the presents, he secures the collar around your neck. It's perfectly tight without being too uncomfortable. He puts the tail to the side, saying it'll come later, and you purr softly when he spreads your legs apart. His hands wrap around your thighs and pull them apart before unbuttoning your jeans and tugging them down. 

As he sees what you're wearing underneath, he licks his lips and dives down. You feel incredibly smart for wearing your panties today, and it's even better that he just got you some more. You've had these ones for a while, after all. They're orange, his favorite even though you don't think the color is flattering with your skin tone.

You told him that once and he joked that "That won't be a problem unless you're sleepin' with Tim Gunn." (Your boyfriend likes Project Runway _a lot_.)

He kisses from your lips to your neck, settling just above the leather collar to bite and suck on your skin. You try your best not to squirm, but it's difficult. Still, you know he'll punish you if you move too much. As he bites down hard on the skin underneath your jaw, you moan and wince slightly. Derick pulls away. "Kittens don't fucking _moan_. They _purr_." You'd be lying if you said you didn't want him to say that. Quickly, you sit up and purr, nuzzling your head against his chest like he said. You lick his neck, nipping lightly at his ear like a little cat.

Ear-biting isn't one of your turn-ons, but he sings like a bird when you do it to him. "Fuck, kitten," He whines, pushing you away and back onto the bed. "You're gonna be the goddamn death of me." You flop back down and he crawls on top of you, his legs wrapped around yours as he settles his mouth on your crotch. Slowly, he sucks your cock through the underwear. You whine again and he stops, smacking you hard on the thigh. You purr for him, like a good boy, and he continues with a grin. It doesn't take long for you to start begging, but he refuses to use the plug just yet. "You're not ready, babydoll. I'd break you." You insist that you're alright with being broken as long as he puts you back together, but he doesn't budge. "No, kitten. Be a good boy and _shut your fucking mouth now._ " He says this with a smile, but the predatory tone in his voice turns you on. Your back arches on the bed and you bite your lip, assuming (correctly) that he wants you to be as quiet as possible. It's a test, apparently, and you want so badly to fail. He's often so scared of hurting you too bad, so he's only punished you twice. The first time was when you went a little crazy with the pranking - his hair smelled like mayonnaise for a week - and he spanked you with his hand. It was only five hits, though, and you were actually begging for more. He told you that you should count yourself lucky, but you didn't feel lucky! You wanted to feel his hand on your ass more, hitting you as he shook his head and told you you'd been bad. 

The thought alone gets you hot. Still, you decide to do your best not to moan or whine too much. He takes a moment to stand and retrieve a belt from your closet, a thick leather strap that he snaps in front of your eyes. Seems he's not fucking around. Setting the belt on the bed next to you, he sits between your legs and leans down, pressing his lips to your chest. You're still wearing your t-shirt, so he pushes up the hem so he can lick and suck at your nipples. Already, it's getting hard to stay quiet. Without warning, he bites down hard and bruises your chest. You cry out, quickly biting your lip, but he catches you. "That's two hits. It'll be two for each noise, alright, little one?" You nod slowly, chest heaving up and down. 

He licks from your nipples to your crotch, sucking on the fabric of your underwear again. When his tongue trails over your belly, you giggle, earning another two hits. After a moment, he speaks, frowning. "Kittens don't wear clothes." Without another word, he pulls down your panties and pulls your shirt off. "Much better." Derick dives down again to suck your cock. He _loves_ putting his mouth on you. He told you that he had an 'oral fixation', which you learned in psych class meant that he wasn't fed or paid enough attention to as an infant. It's sad, but you certainly don't mind what it makes him do. Bro sucks hard and fast, bobbing his head up and down. You'd love to put your hand on his head to push him faster, but that is most definitely against the rules. He pulls away suddenly and you whimper. "That makes six." He snaps, a sneaky grin on his face.

"I wanna fuck your throat so we should get those out of the way now. Right, slut?" Whenever he calls you 'slut', you feel like a little doll. Just something for him to play with, a toy for Master to entertain himself with. You love it. You nod and he grabs you under the arms, picking you up and flipping you onto your stomach. He helps you position yourself so you're bent over the dresser. "Master, I -" He hits you with his hand. "I'm sorry, whore. Did I say you could speak? That makes _eight_." You groan and he hits you again. "TEN." 

You shut up.

He leaves for a moment to get his belt, rubbing your ass with his hand and squeezing roughly. "You've got _such_ a great rump." He remarks, grinning as his hands work over your apparently great rump. Quickly, Derick stands and snaps the belt again. "Count." The first smack stings terribly. The belt comes down on your ass and you cry out "One!" without missing a beat. Your voice is strained and whiny, but god, it feels good. When he hits you again, you purr, biting your lip to stifle a moan. "Two," You say finally, noticing that he's moved to look at your face. "You like that, kitten? What a painslut." Purring in response, you shake your ass back and forth and he continues. The hits get harder as he goes on, and by the time you're at number five your ass is starting to hurt, stinging and throbbing whenever you move. You start to cry as you count. "S-ssixxx," The red welts forming on your rump are going to make it hard to sit, but you don't mind. 

Number nine comes and you're full-on sobbing. He pets your hair, a brief preview of aftercare, and finishes up. He doesn't get mad when you don't count the last two. They're hard and fast, your ass burning and stinging as the belt connects with your flesh. "Master, fuck," You sob, fingernails digging into the wood of the dresser. After what feels like forever, he's done. He picks you up, cradling you in his arms and whispering in your ear. "You okay? Not gonna safeword?" You shake your head and sit down on the edge of the bed. "No, kitten. Kneel." You kneel in front of the bed, quick to do what he tells you. You're really hard, but you know that he cums first unless otherwise stated. He sits on the bed and tells you to open wide before pushing the head of his cock into your mouth. "Like we've been practicing, baby. Try not to gag, alright?" You would nod if you weren't afraid of hurting him. 

Ever so slowly, you tip your head forward and squeeze your thumb. He told you that helps. It kind of does, actually, but he's pretty big and it doesn't make much of a difference. With one hand, you reach up and rub at the tattoo below his hip. That, accompanied by having your mouth on his dick, makes him moan. "God, kitten, keep going, angel," He sputters, his fingers weaving into your hair. You know that he's gonna start moving soon, thrusting his hips down your throat, but he hasn't yet. He's kind enough to give you a _little_ time to adjust, which you appreciate. As one hand rubs at his hip, the other clutches onto his thigh. This is how you stabilizes yourself - you've learned that if you don't, his movements will nearly knock you over. On ones knees isn't exactly a stable position. After you manage to get about a third of him in your mouth, he begins to move his hips forward. His fingers tighten in your hair and you purr around his erection, smiling when he reacts positively. It begins to become a little too intense when he starts full on thrusting, holding your head in place. "Don't move, pet." He orders, forcing you to swallow your pride along with his cock. He moves faster and you gag, prompting him to stop for a second, pull out, and kiss you on the forehead. You're so appreciative of this gesture that you swallow him again mid-kiss. Derick jolts back, surprised and grateful. " _Damn._ " He murmurs, slowly picking up the pace again. It's taken a while, but you've finally gotten used to having him in your mouth. After a certain amount of time, your gag reflex decides that "it ain't worth the effort" as your boyfriend always says. "Baby, I'm close," The warning is appreciated. You pull away and look up at him, taking off your glasses and setting them next to you. 

"Face, mouth, or chest?" 

He turns red as a fucking plum, apparently taken aback by how casually you're asking _upon which part of you he wants to cum._ After a moment of him staring at you with his jaw dropped open, he answers. "Chest."

You nod, leaning forward and continuing to suck him off before sensing that he's moments away from finishing. You pull away and wrap your hands around his cock, sitting up slightly and aiming. He remarks later that he was incredibly impressed with how clever you were - aiming him away from your eyes and mouth and instead towards where he requested. You got a pat on the back for that. He cums more than usual, biting his lip and groaning loudly. Usually, Bro isn't very loud in bed. He groans a little and whimpers every once in a while. It's best when he says your name, which he does today. As he finishes and watches his spunk splatter on your chest, he _whines_ your name. "John, oh _fuck John yes yes John baby baby oh YES,_ " You just smile, shaking as you jack him off and get every last drop. Once he's completely done, you trail a finger up your chest and lick it clean. 

He nearly loses it at that, suddenly kneeling and picking you up under your arms. Gently throwing you onto the bed - an action you didn't think possible - he sits between your legs and kisses up and down your cock. His mouth leaves your crotch for a moment as he licks his own cum off your chest, sucking on your nipple again and making you moan and whine. That shouldn't be as hot as it is, holy shit. Before long, he's back on you, licking and sucking at your erection. It's been left alone for far too long, and you're damn sure that you would've gone mad if he hadn't helped you out soon. 

Derick doesn't ask you where you want to cum. He explains later that he wanted to taste you, didn't want to risk losing any of it. You blush pretty intensely when he tells you that. You cum in his throat and he swallows it all, licking his lips and the tip of your cock when he's done. 

Well aware of how emotionally and physically straining a scene like this can be, Derick cleans you up quickly and has you swaddled in his arms and in blankets. He holds you and kisses your forehead, petting your hair and helping you calm down. You don't know how he got so good at comforting people. Maybe it's just with you, but he has a way of making you feel completely at peace. He holds you tightly to him, moving away only to get you a snack and a glass of water. You sit on his lap as the two of you share a bowl of pretzels, and he kisses your neck softly. "You were so good. You're such a gorgeous little kitten, did you know that?" He murmurs into your ear, rubbing your back and tummy and shoulders. This is probably the roughest session you two have had, and he can tell that you're feeling a bit vulnerable. When he requests that you turn over, ass up, you're a bit confused - but then he dabs aloe vera on your welts and you can't help but smile. After he plants a gentle kiss to your lower back, he lifts you onto him so that you're laying tummy-down on his chest as if he was a bed. 

You doze off for about an hour, and when you wake up, he's gone. Derick returns only a few minutes after you arise, though, carrying two bowls of soup. "'Member that one time where you made me food and totally saved my life and asked for _literally nothing_ in return except that I don't fuck strangers on your couch?" Smiling sheepishly, you nod. That's a nice thing to remember, especially in a time like this. It's good to feel... appreciated. "Well, here's me trynna make it up to you." After handing over the bowl, along with a tray to keep it steady, he nervously dashes off after realizing he's forgotten spoons. 

Sipping the soup from the bowl, you think to yourself that it's the best you've ever tasted - can or not.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Video-chatting was so much less emotional on Pee-Wee's Playhouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updating is hard when you're trying to actually write quality shit

==> Be the nervous guy who doesn't really know how Skype works. 

"So I get to meet your friend? Is he cool? Is he gonna like me?" Your speech is nervous and babbling and erratic, but he just laughs. "Yeah, Master. He'll like you." When he calls you 'Master', your face heats up. You always _think_ he won't notice how red your face is - you're much darker than him in complexion, anyway - but he always does. He pokes your cheek and giggles, pointing out the pink on your cheeks. His neck is still covered in hickeys and love bites and he's conveniently wearing a hoodie even though the apartment is nice and warm. You can't blame him for wanting to keep all that away from his social life. Other guys would force him to tell the world, to wear the collar all the time, but you only do that when he's been bad. You made him wear the collar to class one day. Nobody seemed to notice, but he was absolutely mortified about it anyway.

You continue to grill him about this 'best friend' of his, asking where you met and what he's like. John tells you that his eyes are 'different' like yours and he kind of reminds him of you. That strikes you as odd, but you don't think much of it. This kid _is_ your boyfriend's best friend, so it's probably an honor that he reminds John of you. "I met him online." He finally tells you, making you raise an eyebrow at him in suspicion. He snaps back that he met _you_ on a streetcorner after you got out of prison, and you shut up. Besides, he says, he's met him in person several times. Even you have to admit that their friendship sounds kinda cute. John swears up and down that he and his friend are more like brothers than friends and there was only sexual tension when he was like thirteen. "But then again, thirteen-year-olds have sexual tension with everyone they see." You laugh, but it's cut short when he finally gets Skype working. 

The connection's weird for a second and you pester John about how this shit even works, anyway, is it like the video phone in Pee-Wee's Playhouse or is it less rad? Is there a curtain? He tells you that no, there is not a curtain and it's a lot less cool than Pee-Wee's Playhouse. You're pretty disappointed, but when his friend finally comes on screen you're feeling something a lot more... _intense_ than disappointment. 

John's best friend has shaggy blond hair and olive skin and red eyes that have suddenly filled with shock and confusion. "Bro?" The young man breathes, looking at his computer screen like he's seen a ghost. John's sitting on your lap in front of his laptop looking incredibly baffled. "Wait, do you guys know each other? Derick? Dude, hello?" You don't answer him. Hands trembling, you reach up and take off your shades before cracking a nervous, shaky smile. "Hey, little dude."

When John eventually figures it out, he breathes out a quiet _"Oh my god,"_ before quickly shutting up. Dave is crying and he keeps turning away, embarrassed about the tears. You find that you've shed a few tears as well.

It's the first time you've seen him in _eight years._ He's grown - he's taller and more muscular, features angular and sharp like yours. He's got that Strider handsomeness that you knew he'd get after his 'awkward puberty phase' and he looks...

Happy.

He's sitting in what looks to be a nice apartment or college dorm, the walls covered in photographs and posters. His camera quality is really good, which you can assume is from a nice computer, which you can assume means he's pretty well off. He isn't dead, he didn't join a gang, he was never in prison. Dave didn't follow in his fuckup brother's footsteps, thank god, and he instead found a better path. He seems to be looking at you a lot, too, gawking at the tattoos and the scars on your face and arms. 

"I thought you were dead, Bro." He says finally, mumbling under his breath. John looks slightly nervous (this is likely not what he expected from this little meet n' greet) but he's focusing that energy on keeping you calm. He holds your hand and runs his thumb across your palm, which he knows you love. John does that every time you have a nightmare. He settles in your lap and holds your hand and counts out your pulse for you, "One, two, three, one, two, three," until you calm down. His voice is too quiet to be picked up by the microphone as he counts for you, holding your hand tight. Finally, you gain the courage to say something you've meant to say for years. "I'm so sorry, Dave. For leavin' you." 

Dave looks as though he's been waiting to hear that for _years._ He shakes his head slowly. "Where the fuck were you? Why didn't you fuckin' call me? Nothing. Nothin' for eight years." Your brother's voice is strained and cracking and it's breaking your fucking heart. "You said, you said you were gonna adopt me. Said it was just gonna be a year or two." You're ashamed and embarrassed and you feel like complete and utter shit. As you're about to respond, clearing your throat and trying desperately to form the right words, John speaks up. 

"Dave, I didn't meet him in a _bar_." Your brother looks a little confused, obviously waiting for the punchline to come. "He was homeless. Derick was in prison and then he was homeless and he lived outside my apartment and I took him in." Dave seems to be speechless. He gawks at the two of you before speaking quietly. "What'd you do to get in jail, man?" You go silent for a moment, squeezing John's hand. "Drugs, lil' bro. I was a dealer. Remember when I was like sixteen and I was hyped up all the time? Makin' hella money?" Dave nods. He looks just like he did as a child like this, all sad and lonely and confused. "Yeah." His voice is soft and scared. It's hard for you to continue. Even John doesn't know everything that you're about to say. "I was using. And dealing, too, on the side. Trying to save up money. By the time I aged out, I'd almost saved enough to get a lil' apartment. Then I got jumped. They beat me up real bad, stole all my money and the cell phone that you knew the number to. I got a new one a couple months later, but I guess you'd moved because the number was disconnected." Dave's face falls. It isn't his fault, but he has a tendency to blame himself.

Dave listens quietly, trying not to interrupt or get angry. You're proud that he learned how to control his emotions so well. You trained him to do so - which may or may not have been a good thing - so he wouldn't look weak. John says he's funny and laughs a lot, and you're grateful. You always hoped that he wouldn't keep it all buried inside like you do. One of the few problems with your relationship with John is that you're horrible at 'feelings jams' as he calls them. He's helping, though. John's good to vent to. 

Clearing your throat, you continue your story. "I got busted. I fucked up an' I landed in prison - ten years, out in five for not shankin' anybody." You don't mention Jake. Your prison years aren't something you like talking about at all, let alone the topic of your ex. "Hitchhiked up to Washington and tried to find work, but with a record like mine ain't nobody gonna hire me. Besides, I was covered in tattoos and gross as fuck." John interjects here. "Sugar, that tattoo on your chest. Is it for Dave?" You freeze. He's got you there and you can't help but admit it. You scootch him off your lap and pull off your shirt, revealing a chest full of tattoos. The tattoo John was talking about is a red handprint with numbers underneath, dates representing the day Dave was born and the last time you saw him. 

"See, I got this when I was nineteen. This is your birthday, and there's the day I saw you last." You chuckle and pat your chest. "Guess I'll have to get that part removed." Getting a little closer to the camera, you show Dave more details. "It's your baby handprint. Colored like your eyes, y'see? You got such cool eyes, lil' man. You're such a great kid." You're getting emotional and it's embarrassing. Dave hasn't spoken since you started your story, but he suddenly speaks up. "So you're okay? And you weren't, like, tryin' to abandon me or anything?" You swallow the lump in your throat, choking back tears when he asks if you meant to abandon him. "No, man. Dave, fuck, fuck no. Never. Remember, mijo? Remember what I told you when I left?"

Dave pauses, looking down and nodding. He repeats, verbatim, what you said that day eight years ago. "Hasta luego, viejito." He laughs, wiping a tear away from his cheek with his sleeve. It's been so long, too long since you heard that silly little laugh of his and you feel like you've failed him. You nod your head, letting your eyes close as you listen to him tell a brief anecdote back at you. "You look the same. All dweeby and stupid and awesome. Are you still cool as all hell? John, is he?" John grins and nods eagerly. "He's the best." You're proud of John, proud to call him your own. He's a sweet boy, all smiles and kind words and polite, well-timed snark. He's keeping his silly, sarcastic sense of humor at bay for now and you appreciate it. That's one of many things you love about John - he's really funny, but he knows when it's inappropriate. He tells you he learned how to control his snappiness the hard way. 

It's nice, though, to hear him say you're 'the best'. It's even better when Dave responds.

"That's how I felt as a kid, too. An' I guess it hasn't changed much." 

You stare openly at him, shocked that he isn't angry with you. He interrupts your thought process. "Don't think this doesn't mean I ain't a lil' pissed that you didn't come back for me, but..." Dave shakes his head slightly, smiling in disbelief. "I'm just so fuckin' happy to see you again. It's a lil' weird that you're dating my B-F-F, but I trust that he's gonna make you feel loved. You better to the same for him, viejo. Eh?" He eyes you like he's trying to stare you down, and you just laugh, squeezing John (Who is completely dumbfounded by all this, mouth agape and trembling) tightly to you. "Nothin' makes me happier than him. He saved my life, after all. Did he tell you that?" Dave shakes his head and your boyfriend looks at you expectantly. John's never heard the story of that night from your perspective. 

You start at the beginning of your relationship with John. At the start, you were hardly even friends. "He always gave me money. He said it was just spare change, but he always gave me at _least_ five bucks. I got to eat because of him. He paid for all my meals and clothes, and a couple times he gave me extra blankets and coats and towels. When I first came to this apartment, it was November. Cold as all hell. The kid had one blanket on his bed. One. He gave all the other ones to me, saying they were 'extra'." You pause, kissing John on the back of the neck. "I don't think he thought I noticed, but I definitely did. An' I noticed how scared he looks walking home, which I guess was cause some homeless assholes were fuckin' with him? Calling him nasty names and touching him and shit. Even after that, he comes home and sees me, some dirty-ass vagrant, and he gives me all his cash." By now, John and Dave are listening intently. John looks pretty shocked that you noticed _any_ of this, and Dave is just astounded by the fact that his best friend saved his long-lost brother's life.

"It was real cold one night - like, danger levels of fucking freezing - and I got so cold that I passed out. John helped me inside and fed me and clothed me and it sounds like something outta the New Testament but it _really happened_ and he asks for nothing in return. Nothing. Who does that? Who _fucking_ does that? John Egbert, that's who. John Mother Fucking Egbert. That is your middle name, right?" He giggles and whispers something in your ear, making you laugh loudly and scream " _Beatrice?!_ " with a grin on your face. John sputters and squirms in your lap. "Nonono! I said something else! Something very different!" He actually said 'Linh', but you figure that can stay a secret. 

Dave just smiles. "You're happy together." It's a statement, not a question, but you still feel the need to answer. "Yeah, little brother. We're happy." Dave looks so damn proud of you, so happy and content. "So what about you? What have you been up to?" You ask, resting your chin on John's shoulder. Your brother replies that he's going to The Art Institute of Austin, and he's living with his girlfriend of three years. John whispers to you that his girlfriend is really sweet and _really_ fucking kinky, which makes you laugh. Dave asks what you're snickering about and you just tease him for settling down so fast. He snaps back that "you're probably gonna settle down and be with Egboob forever" and you can't stop yourself before whoops, you're just saying _all this shit that you did not mean to say_ and then 

"Well, yeah. I can't really see myself wantin' to be with anyone else."

John's eyes go wide and Dave's mouth opens as if he's about to speak but his girlfriend walks in right before he can. He says goodbye and waves, giving you one last "Hasta luego, big brother." before signing off. 

There's a brief silence after Skype shuts off. You're about to jump in and explain what you meant but he cuts you off. "Do you really wanna be with me for that long?" Perfectly aware that lying will get you nowhere, you decide to give him the honest truth. "I, uh. Yeah. I wanna stay as long as you'll keep me, and it ain't just because of the food." John laughs, looking a little embarrassed. "I mean, hell, I love you more than anything. I love my brother, yeah, but you're just..." You stop. Rambling about your feelings towards your brother isn't exactly a way to set the mood. 

He turns and straddles your waist so he can face you, holding your face in his hands as he speaks. God, John's just the cutest damn thing. Hopefully this conversation won't freak him out too much. "I tell you things I don't tell nobody. I trust you and I love you and there were days back when I was on the street that you were the only thing I looked forward to. Fuck, you're still something to look forward to. Every time you come home late from work or school I jus' wanna eat you up and kiss you all over, I missed you so bad." Running your fingers through his hair, you let out a soft, shaky sigh. "I meant everything I said earlier. You saved my life, John. You had no idea if I was gonna be cute as Ryan Gosling or freaky as Jeffrey Dahmer. It was kind of a crazy decision but I'm damn glad you did it." He's grinning like an upper-middle-class kid on Christmas and he leans in and kisses you on the lips. "I should've known you and Dave were brothers. You're both ridiculous and sweet and perfect, just in totally different ways." John kisses you again and hugs you tight, grinning. 

When John asked you to live with him you thought you could never be happier.  
Then, he kissed you on movie night, and you were sure it could never get better than this.  
Finally, John introduced you to your own goddamn brother and didn't bat a pretty black eyelash when you announced that you wanted to be with him forever and wow,

you just don't know when your mood is gonna stop climbing.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave reflects on his life and the trials and tribulations of living without a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE ABOUT PREVIOUS CHAPTERS
> 
> Someone pointed out that John and Bro did not use condoms even though Bro used drugs and needles and practiced unsafe sex in the past. I felt it was obvious, but I still should've made clear that Bro is free of any STDs or STIs, including the AIDS virus. It's a valid concern and I should've thought it through better. In my notes/imagination, I have it that Bro went to the doctor shortly after moving in with John and was checked out for everything. This would explain why the worry was nonexistent.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

==> Be the little brother.

Your name is DAVE STRIDER, and you have been alone longer than anyone knows.

Friends help. When you were twelve, you met three of your favorite people online. They're all your dearest, most loved companions (and one of them is now your romantic partner) and you aren't sure where you'd be without them. It's also nice to have a sort-of-family after years alone. You posted some of your mixing online once, when you were sixteen, and a music producer saw it. His people contacted your person and he told you he was going to make you a star.

When you told him you had no parents for him to speak to, his plan for you changed.

Your adoptive father, who insists that you call him by his name rather than 'Dad' or 'Pops' or anything like that, is pretty cool. He's 31 and not exactly parent material, so you view him as a cool uncle. Originally, he wanted to get you signed and famous ASAP. When he realized that you were only 16, with no family or friends nearby and more emotional issues than present-day Amanda Bynes he decided to slow it down. He gets you small gigs to practice and get more comfortable on stage, and he says you'll both know when you're ready for the big stuff. 

There's horror stories about adoptions gone wrong, but you aren't one of them. You got real lucky, and you're incredibly grateful. The real horror story is your life _before_ he found you. A lot of kids have it way worse. Whenever it got bad, you'd remind yourself of that. Remembering that fact didn't help much, though. It only made you feel bad for feeling bad, and that was no good at all. Your foster parents didn't start hitting you until Bro aged out. He was bigger than you, stronger, and when he wasn't high as fuck he would protect you. He shot up, you drank. You had your first drink when you were 14 and you only stopped when John asked you to.

You remember that Skype conversation. They paid for Skype Premium _just_ so they could all talk to you at once, which was both sweet and concerning. Their three little video boxes were staring at you and John spoke first, starting off by saying that interventions were 'really stupid and you probably deserve something cooler,' and then he remarked that the vodka bottle on your dresser was a bit distracting, and could you please go throw it away? Rose gave you the deets on the dangers of alcohol on the young mind, and Jade just yelled the whole time. It's not that she was mad, it's just that Jade has a tendency to get real hyped up when she's worried. John was the only one that cried. He said he'd seen how much his dad drank after his mom died and he didn't want that for you, you deserved better, you deserve happiness. John said he was never gonna stop helping you look for your brother, that you deserved a family and that you'd find one eventually. 

You just said that you already had, and you were Skyping with them on another screen. You all laughed and you joined AA Teen, texting John and Jade and Rose during tough meetings. You got through it, and you got adopted, and you went to school and made 'real life' friends and visited your best friends with the help of your rich fake uncle and you got into your dream school and you're happy, but

but you miss your brother so bad that you could cry.

Your adoptive dad sent out a private investigator, John hacked into police servers, and Jade (literally) sniffed around for clues. Rose didn't search, but instead stayed and talked you through tough days. Eight years and no word from him, and you kind of assumed he was dead.

When John got a boyfriend ('fuckin finally you got someone to smooch that dweeby ass mouth of yours', you said,) you were pretty psyched. He made up some bullshit story about meeting in a restaurant and you could see right away that it was a lie, so you just figured they met on OkCupid or something. You were happy when he finally let you see him via Skype, and you were actually a little nervous when it booted up. As it loaded, you prepared your speech in your head - "you fuck with johns gay little heart and ill rip your nuts off ok if i was joking id be smiling but this is 0% joke and 100% serious as hell so listen close assface you fuck with john you fuck with me" - but when John and his boyfriend came on screen the only thing you could sy was

"Bro?"

After eight years of searching, your best friend found your brother on accident. When he told you that Bro had been homeless and not, in fact, avoiding taking care of you, you felt like you were dying. He went through all that and you didn't help, you could've helped but you _gave up on him,_ and you feel horrible. The pain alleviates, however, when you see how happy he is. You notice a hickey on John's neck and you stifle a laugh, trying not to make it obvious that John mackin' on your brother makes you uncomfortable. Still, you actually don't mind. It's amazing to see him so happy. He's quit using, he has a steady job, and a good relationship. He's content and for the first time in ages, you are too.

It dawns on you that you have a blood family again and that fact alone patches up the hole in your heart. After you say goodbye and sign off, you tell Jade with tears in your eyes. She grins wider than you've ever seen and hugs you, exclaiming that you four should double-date. You nod, saying that's a great idea, before calling your adoptive dad and giving him the news. He asks a little nervously if your brother is going to want custody - he wouldn't try to steal you away, of course, but he really does care about you and enjoy having you around - and you say no. Your 'dad' lets out a sigh and congratulates you, telling you that if your brother ever needs a DJ gig he can set him up. 

It's strange feeling content with your family and friends and _life_ , but it's a feeling you could easily get used to. You feel even better knowing that Bro and John are experiencing the same emotions, the same glee and euphoria that comes from having an immense weight lifted from your chest again. You can breathe again, and the air tastes fresh and warm and perfect.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about sex, ba-by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hella nsfw.
> 
> omfg thank you to cawaiiey for pointing out typos!

==> John: Be showered in love and affection.

He's kissing you so furiously that you fear his lips will catch fire. Your lips, neck, chest, hips and thighs are being smooched and marked up quicker than you can even register. Apparently reuniting your boyfriend with his long-lost brother counts as being a good boy. How convenient.

Derick scooped you up the second Dave stopped the call, taking you directly to your bedroom and climbing on top of you. He really didn't waste any time! It seems that he gets particularly needy and touchy-feely when he's this happy. It's quite nice to be _adored_ like this, cherished and loved and protected. Hard not to feel protected when your muscular boyfriend is on top of you, straddling your waist and holding your face in his hands. Every once in a while, he pauses to whisper little musings and compliments against your lips. The shades came off a while ago, so you can stare right into his eyes. "Fuck, John. You're so great. So fuckin' great, goddamn." After every little murmur, he goes back to what he was previously doing. 

Currently, he's sucking and biting at one of your nipples, making you moan and writhe on the bed. He's so rough like this, grinding his hips down against yours as his back arches. Little bruises and bite marks cover your skin, making you feel owned and needed and _possessed_. Derick sits up suddenly, getting off your lap and grabbing a box beneath your bed. "Sit." He commands, quickly alerting you that now, you get to be 'kitten' rather than 'John'.

(He often calls you 'John' anyway.)

Master takes your collar out of the box and fastens it tight around your neck, helping you take off your rumpled shirt and tossing it to the floor. "Good boy. Lie down, now." You follow his orders, lying down and spreading your legs on instinct. "There we go, you know exactly what to do." He smiles, slowly dragging his finger down your chest until he reaches the hem of your jeans, unbuttoning them quicker than you thought possible. Master tugs them down and tosses them aside, your boxers going along with the pants. As of right now, there's no boner in sight. Makeouts turn you on, but not enough to get you completely hard - he fixes that, though, with his next action. 

Reaching back into the box, he takes out a bottle of lube and, holy shit, your tail. He keeps telling you that you'll know when you're ready for 'the full sex' and whoa, you think you're ready. In fact, _damn sure_ that you're ready. It's strange to feel so confident about this thing that you've spent years obsessing over. You know, deep down, that virginity is only a social construct (Rose taught you that. Turns out Women's Studies is a pretty interesting class.) but losing it is still kind of a big deal. It's less about the deep emotional effects that having a dick inside you has ("Virginity has nothing to do with 'dicks', John," you hear Lalonde saying.) and more about the fact that having _anything_ like that inside you is pretty new. 

Spoiler alert, you hardly ever use that vibrator under your side of the bed. Vibrations in general just made you feel like your butt was on laughing gas, and you don't really know what being fucked feels like. The fact that you're about to find out scares you a little, so you look up at him and squeeze his hand. He immediately responds. "Babydoll, just tell me if you're not ready. You just say the word and I stop. Okay?" Nodding, you let out a shallow sigh. "I'm ready, Sir. Promise." He insists that you still have the right to back out, and under no circumstances should you hold anything in if you want him to stop. Derick seems really concerned about the whole consent thing and you're kind of happy about that. It's sad to you, though, that consent is something people have to discuss. That's when you know something's a big problem - when your kind, sweet, gentle boyfriend has to worry that you're only sleeping with him because you fear him. "I want this." You tell him, petting his cheek and smiling. He lets out a sigh of relief that he's not pressuring you in the least.

He pours a little lubricant onto his fingers and moves slowly towards you, rubbing it around his fingers to warm it up. How kind, you think. After placing a quick kiss to your forehead, he presses his finger up against you and slowly pushes it in. You whimper and flinch, the feeling strange but not uncomfortable. Quickly, he looks up at you to double check that you're okay before continuing. Before long, he's in to the knuckle. You're slightly less tight than usual because he fingered you yesterday during movie night - damn, that was bliss - but it's still difficult for his digit to move inside you. He moves it around, getting you comfortably stretched before adding another finger. This makes you wince, pain radiating through your legs, and he kisses you again. Derick moves slowly, gently, as if he's afraid of breaking you. He scissors his fingers back and forth, stretching carefully before adding a third. The whole process takes longer than you initially expected, but you appreciate it a lot. He told you beforehand that fucking with no prep not only hurts terribly, but is also super dangerous. 

Just the other night, he told you, "There is nothing less sexy than a hospital visit about bleeding anuses. Just that fucking phrase is a boner-kill. 'Bleeding anuses'." 

Sometimes your boyfriend is a genius with words. 

(That was not one of those times.)

After what feels like an eternity of him intentionally avoiding your prostate to tease you, (what a dick, no pun intended) he pulls out and lubes up the plug. You bite your lip eagerly, waiting for him to _get the fuck on with it_ , and soon he has the plug lined up and ready to go. "You golden, ponyboy?" He asks, prompting a nod from you that signals that he can start putting it in. 

Oh, _wow._ That is a new feeling and it certainly isn't a bad one. The plug goes in with a pop and you whine, not noticing that your eyes have somehow shut. When you open them, you see that both of you are hard and he's smiling down at you. "You're so good, kitty. So good. Show me your tail, alright, boy?" You sit up, rolling onto your belly and getting on all fours. You waggle your hips a bit, showing off what you feel is one of your 'sexiest' features. It helps that Master kind of has a thing for butts. He reaches out and gropes you, squeezing your ass and grinning. 

Finally, he speaks. "Help me with my jeans." It's an order, not a request. You sit up, kneeling as you unbutton his pants and gently tug them down. He's really, really hard and you lean forward, pressing your lips to the erection beneath his boxer-briefs. Derick insists on wearing neon undergarments at all times, which you find both endearing and annoying. "That way everybody'll be able to see me if I'm half-naked in the dark." He explained, smirking at you. You remember that moment briefly when you're helping him undress, which makes you smile a little. Some masters dislike smiling from their subs. They seem to want their partner to focus only on experiencing pain, serving them, and cumming. That's not how your partner is at all - Derick loves when you smile, because he knows that it's as important for you to enjoy yourself as it is for him to do so. He notices your grin and pets your hair, slowly easing your head closer to his groin so you know what to do. You suck around his length through the fabric, sighing and wagging your tail as you do so. He groans, pushing you off for a second to take off his boxers and give you full access to his cock. You wrap your lips around the tip and lick at his slit, your own erection hopelessly unattended. For now, though, you don't mind. He'll get to that eventually. The two of you have been practicing for a while and your gag reflex is improving. You can take almost all of him now, and you do so slowly. You suck and hum around him, your fingernails digging into the sensitive skin next to his hips. Master tugs on your hair roughly, slowly working up the nerve to fuck your mouth. Once he does, you gag a little around his dick and he moans - it feels good for him when you gag, you've learned, regardless of how uncomfortable it is for you. It's a small price to pay to hear him whine like that. 

After a little while, he pulls out and you whimper. "Sorry, kitten. But we're on to phase two, now." That makes you smile slyly, sitting back and spreading your legs. He just nods, reaching forward and easing the plug out of you. You'd just gotten used to it, too, but it seems you'll have something to replace it soon anyway. 

He got tested for any sort of diseases shortly after he moved in. STIs, STDs, and illnesses not transmitted sexually - thankfully, he was free of anything bad. All they found out was that he was allergic to penicillin, but that doesn't really affect your day to day lives. They had to test his blood twice for AIDS, because the first test was corrupted - he cried when they eventually came back negative. "I did everything wrong and I still didn't get it," He sobbed, holding you close even though you weren't romantically involved yet. "And so many people - _good fucking people_ \- get it anyway." Derick felt incredibly guilty about it, and he had a hard time dealing with his 'luck' for a while.

Because of this, you don't have to use a condom. He insists on using one anyway, though, because he still worries about diseases regardless of his status. You watch as he puts the condom on, biting your lip in anticipation. You're nervous, but he was really careful about stretching you so it won't hurt _too_ bad. He picks you up under the arms and lifts you onto his lap. "Okay, kitty. Just relax for me. I got you, okay? I got you." You listen to his words as he helps you lower yourself onto his cock. This is really happening. Okay, wow. Okay. Really happening. V-card lost. You bite your lip hard as he enters you, the lube that he spread on himself colder than you expected. It's nice, though, that it doesn't actually hurt that much. You don't pull a 'sad lil' shota' and cry, but you do bite pretty hard on the inside of your cheek. He kisses you as he fills you up completely, just barely grazing your prostate and making you purr.

From there, he starts to thrust. Master faces you and kisses your cheeks and neck and lips, making you feel safe and loved and comfortable. Of all the ways to lose your virginity, you consider this one of the best. You're happy and completely at peace, all while being really turned on. You ride him a little, grinding your hips down and wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He just grins and moans quietly, the majority of his noises only soft sighs. This is much more fun than you thought. When he hits your prostate dead-on, though, your demeanor changes from blissful and aroused to downright sexual. 

"Fuck, fuck me, oh my god, do that again, do that thing again holy fucking shit!" You're practically yelling and you can tell he's both amused and annoyed - the last thing you want is a noise complaint - but he doesn't say anything about the noise. Instead, he comments on your swearing. "Bad kitty. Swearing is naughty, isn't it? How many curses was that? Five?" Quickly, you retort that it was only four, Master, only four! and he snickers. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. Four swats next time." 

He continues, hitting your prostate often, but not often enough. "It's damn near impossible to get it every time, babydoll. Don't put yer expectations so damn high." When he's turned on or tired (right now he's both) his accent comes on strong. Sometimes he curses in Spanish, too, which is damn sexy. _"Joder, eso es bueno,"_ He groans, which he explains later just means 'Damn, that's good.' and _"Tomarlo, puta,"_ which means 'take it, slut.' It'd be sexier if you spoke Spanish, but it's still pretty hot. 

You can tell he's getting close because his thrusts and movements are getting more rapid and strained. It feels so, so good, even though he hasn't touched your cock in what feels like years. He holds you close and your fingernails scratch down his back, his doing the same to you. It hurts but it feels so _good_ , so pure and raw and fuck, he's gonna cum, he says. He thrusts a few more times, making you scream and whine and moan, and then he swells and finishes. 

It takes him a moment to pull out, the afterglow and orgasm almost too much for him to move. Soon, though, he's lying back and throwing away the condom. He's so blissful that he forgets, for a moment, that you're aching for release next to him. "Um, Sir? Master?" You whimper, trying to keep yourself from rutting against the bed. He notices quickly and pushes you down on your stomach. "Before you finish, you gotta get a punishment. So much _swearing_ , kitten. Bad boy, bad John." You frown and his hand comes down hard on your ass, one, two, three, and finally four. It goes quickly, but it hurts more than usual because you're so desperate to cum. He flips you over forcefully, pinning your arms above your head and onto the bed with one, large hand. He grabs your wrists to hold you there, smirking at you and diving down to bite harshly on your neck. You're already covered in hickeys, but he's just teasing and torturing you now. At first he was kind, but now he's being cruel and you kind of love it. 

He pinches your nipples, rehashing some of his foreplay techniques. "Ugh," You whine, annoyed with him. "I really need to cum, Sir!" Derick just glares at you. 

"Beg, whore." 

You're more than happy to do so.

"Please, Master, Sir, I love you, I need you, touch me, I can't live without you," You whimper, purrs and whines slipping out between words. "I am nothing, not without you, Master, please, _pleaseletmecum_ , Master!" Eventually he gives in, letting go of your hands and jacking you off. He sucks on your tip while he does so, a half-blowjob, half-handjob kind of thing. When you cum, he swallows it all.

"Good kitten."

After that, you fall into afterglow and he holds you and kisses you until you both fall asleep. Your post-sex nap lasts for about an hour, and when you wake, there's food waiting. "You taught me how to live, so I learned how to cook. Congrats on losing the V-Card, Babydoll."

He made you pancakes shaped like dicks.

True love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps can you tell I value consensual, safe sex a lot??


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of these days you're gonna worry yourself to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience! I've been super busy but i finally had time to wrap up this chapter. UvU

==> Bro: Anxiously flip through Skymall.

You've never seen John as angry as he was when you were stopped at airport security. Maybe it's your tattoos or your dark skin or your pointy shades, but those guards _really_ did not like you. 

"He's my _boyfriend,_ " John hissed, even more annoyed that the guy they got to pat you down was a rather attractive Asian guy. "If he was dangerous, I wouldn't let him sleep in my bed every night." The guard eyed him, suspicious, before quickly realizing that the only thing in your belongings that even resembled a weapon was a toothpick.

Only four days prior did you discover your brother was alive and well in your home state, and it was only yesterday that John informed you that he'd gotten plane tickets. Upon calling Dave to give him the good news, you found that John had already texted him.

_That gossipy bitch._

Either way, you're incredibly excited. You don't care that everyone on this plane is giving you dirty looks, you don't care that you're way too tall for the seat to be comfortable. (John, on the other hand, has room to spare.) You've got family waiting for you in Houston and a cute boy by your side, and you're 30,000 feet above giving a damn.

The plane ride goes quicker than you expected. You and John laugh at the ridiculous shit in Skymall and you chat and nap on each other's shoulders to pass the time. Before you know it, the pilot is announcing your descent. As soon as the plane lands - even before you're allowed to leave - you turn and grab John into a tight hug. "I love you so fuckin' much, kitten," You murmur, running your fingers through his hair. "I dunno what I'd do without you." It's likely that no one else has meant this as much as you. While other people aren't sure how they'd smile or laugh without their partner, you aren't sure if you would've survived. He also helped you find your brother, a feat you thought impossible and incredibly unlikely. Everything you'd previously given up hope on, John is giving to you free of charge.

The two of you collect your things and make your way out of the plane. Even though you can't walk side by side, you hold his hand as you move through the aisle. You're nervous, shaky and scared of what Dave's going to think of you. Skype is very different from real life and you can only assume the worst. What if he hasn't yet healed from all he went through in foster care? What if he resents you for turning to a life of crime instead of making honest money? He knows it was hard for you, too, but that doesn't change the fact that you fucked up. You squeeze John's hand and you eventually reach the meeting area.

As soon as Dave sees you, he covers his mouth with his hands and slowly walks forward. He doesn't speak, but instead rests his head against your chest and lets you hug him. Even after all these years, you're a few inches taller than him. John stands awkwardly off to the side and you motion for him to come and join the hug, which he does. Both you and your brother wrap your arms around John, and before long you're group-hugging in the middle of an airport. People are staring and looking confused, but none of you care. You're way too happy to give a damn about what some yuppies on vacation think of you.

Eventually, Dave pulls away and looks you over. "You got taller." He says finally, raising an eyebrow and smirking. You tell him the same, making sure he takes note that you're still the tallest. Dave just punches your shoulder and you ruffle his hair, the same combination of gestures that you always did as kids. The two of you were never super touchy-feely. The only person you really enjoy being cuddly with is John. While you're quick to say 'I love you' to your boyfriend, you and Dave say it through roughhousing. 

John's looking a little neglected, so you take his hand as your brother leads you both out of the airport to his car. You and John shoot him questions from the back seat, such as "You still happy with Harley?" from your boyfriend and "She hot?" from yourself. Dave nods happily to both and you high-five him. Dave asks questions too, usually mirror-versions of yours. "You still happy with Egbutt? He hot?" He laughs to himself at his own joke, but he stops laughing when you grin and say yes to both. "More than you know, lil' brother." You wink at him through the rear-view mirror and he makes a gagging sound. 

The three of you spend the rest of the trip goofing off and laughing. There's something strange about all of this. You know it's probably just because you're so out of practice at having a family, but something's bugging you. Dave's acting almost... sad? It's understandable, actually. You haven't seen him for years. This is an emotional time, after all. Of course he's acting a little odd. He hasn't told you anything about his life after you had to leave. Dave seems as if he's aching to tell you something. He always used to mash his lips together when he was trying to keep something in, and you can see that he's doing that now. 

It worries you. You hate being worried.

You used to be worried all the time, before John came into your life. You worried about Dave, you worried about finding a place to sleep, worried about finding food, about staying relatively healthy in the midst of filth, about surviving without anybody by your side.

John helped with all of those things, even the ones you thought were impossible. All you want is to help Dave like John helped you.

The three of you make it to Dave's apartment and you meet Jade. John hugs her, happy to see one of his best friends after so many years. You pull her aside shortly after and give her a stern warning about fucking with your brother's heart. Jade assures you that she could 'never hurt dave!!' and you have nothing to worry about. She almost looks angry that you could suggest such a thing, her brows furrowed and lip twitching like a furious dog. You pat her on the head and nod, making clear that you expected that exact answer from her. It confuses you, though, that she'd take such a simple, cliché request so harshly. 

Again, it worries you. And again, you hate being worried.

Dave and Jade drop you off at a hotel and let you get settled, telling you that they'll pick you up at seven and you'll all go out for dinner. You give Dave another hug and John does the same. You and Jade shake hands and share a smile before your boyfriend jumps in and hugs her, too. Before long, you and John are in the hotel room getting comfortable. From the moment you're alone, though, John is planning how he can get you to spill what's bothering you. He can always tell when you're upset and he's well aware that something's eating at you.

He grabs your hand like a child with its mother and he leads you to the bed, sitting down and taking you with him. "You're sad." John says, his frankness as glaring as ever. At first, you just scoff. "Why would I be sad, baby? I'm surrounded by family for the first time in years." John's not an idiot, though. He's seen you at your best and at your worst, and he knows this is closer to the latter than the former. 

You sigh and tell him you're worried about Dave, that you feel like he's acting strange. Immediately, you see John's face fall. 

"You don't know, do you?"

You ask him what, what don't I know, and he just gives you Dave's chumhandle. "I don't know a lot, but I know things got pretty bad in foster care after you had to leave." Your stomach twists and you bite your lip. "Talk to him. He'll tell you, I bet. He's always been pretty secretive about it with me. 

Taking the piece of paper with your brother's contact information on it, you sit down on the bed with your phone and text him.

\-- royalRump [RR] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 4:36 PM --  
RR: hey.  
RR: it's bro.  
TG: oh dude look at you  
TG: i see you figured out the internet  
TG: listen man i know its tough but once you get the basics down  
TG: yknow pesterchum and neopets  
TG: its easy  
TG: piece of papa egbert cake and speaking of which have you had his cake yet  
TG: its the shit yo  
TG: high quality shit too  
TG: like the shit in the manure at the home depot  
TG: the organic stuff made from happy cow poop  
TG: those cows super happy i think they give those cows greek yogurt or something because i drove by one of the farms and oh my god it was like roses  
TG: roses wearing fancy perfume from macys  
RR: dave, shut the fuck up.  
RR: dear god. you used to go on and on about ridiculous things and it's only gotten worse.  
RR: that was a good neopets joke, though. i'm very proud.  
TG: thank you kindly  
RR: so, i gotta ask you something.  
RR: about after i left.  
TG: oh  
TG: yeah  
TG: well ask away man im an open book  
TG: not even gonna make a stupid pun about that  
TG: or a metaphor or a simile  
TG: or a uh  
TG: onomatopoeia  
TG: or other grammar stuff  
RR: dave. hush.  
TG: ...ok  
RR: what happened to make you all sad?  
TG: 'to make me all sad' wow that's not vague at all i know exactly how to answer that are you ready  
RR: yes.  
TG: really ready  
RR: christ, dave. yeah.  
TG: okay  
TG: fuck im trying to find a funny way to mess with you about this but i cant??  
TG: i cannot find anything funny to say somebody call 911 this is obviously a medical emergency  
RR: what happened?  
RR: what happened in foster care?

There's a long pause and you start to worry, when suddenly a wall of text appears.

TG: they hit me okay they hit me a lot and im not gonna go into detail but god i was only eleven and i waited for you and i was so scared and god i just kept thinking you were gonna come back and i met john and rose and jade and they were all i had because you were gone bro you were gone  
TG: my foster parents would always tell me you were never coming back and that i was just a little shit and i was never gonna get adopted and they were right werent they  
TG: i never got adopted and you never came to get me  
TG: i missed you so much but after a while i just gave up because i thought you were either dead or you just didnt wanna see me  
TG: honestly i didnt know which was worse  
TG: and then john tells me he got himself a boyfriend  
TG: and im happy for him and i tell jade and were like okay lets meet this loser lets see if hes good enough for my best friend  
TG: and god i thought i hated you i told myself the next time i see that bastard im gonna kick his ass  
TG: but then i saw you and john was on your lap and ive never seen that dweeb look any happier  
TG: youre not the guy that id convinced myself you were  
TG: remember that time when that punk from upstairs brought brownies over but i didnt eat any cause i thought they looked sketchy  
TG: you ate some though and you got so high and you pointed at one of the stains on the ceiling of our bedroom and you said  
TG: 'dave we dont need parents'  
TG: 'thats our parents that stain right there dont you see'  
TG: 'thats the blessed virgin'  
TG: and you kept swearing that the virgin mary was on our ceiling  
TG: i guess one of the programs that you were in, one of those anti gang thingies took you too a church and you were a devout catholic for .8 seconds it was very very emotional  
TG: i told you i could baptize you and you were like 'oh definitely' and then you said something in spanish about your lord  
TG: im not gonna lie it was actually really sweet and very very funny and i was gonna baptize you with toilet water but you started praying to the stain and i walked in with a red solo cup full of water from the toilet and you were praying for me  
TG: you said 'please keep my baby brother safe i dont know if ill be able to keep him safe and i just want you to make sure hes happy'  
TG: it was sweet  
TG: you probably dont remember that but after you left i decided i hated you and i forgot that you ever said that, that you ever said those things about me to some god we both dont actually believe in, i forgot that  
TG: i know i just rambled for a very very long time but this is the point  
TG: when i saw you with john i remembered and i realized  
TG: youre still that guy praying to the stain  
TG: and im so happy for you  
TG: and im okay

'Speechless' isn't really an accurate term for what you are right now because you can't even type. Instead, you just wave John over, handing him your phone. 

He reads and you sit next to him with your head on his shoulder, your hands covering your mouth in the strangest combination of horror and euphoria you've ever experienced. Part of you is touched and honored that he remembers something so stupid, not to mention the fact that he forgives you for everything you've done. The other part of you is absolutely appalled by how he was treated when you were gone. After making a promise to yourself that you'll kill whoever hurt Dave, you turn to John and give him a hug.

"You gave me this." You murmur, far more emotional than you ever hoped you'd be. "You gave me this and I love you."  
Realizing you never messaged Dave back, you grab your phone and write him a quick note.

RR: i love you.

You've never told him that before, not in all your years of loving him like you would your best friend - which he is, in a way. Upon telling him this, you realize you've never heard him say it, either.

TG: love you too bro  
TG: love you too

John, who's reading over your shoulder, hugs you hard and you hug him back. It's weird having a family again, people who love you and care about you, but it isn't as bad a feeling as it was before you knew. You're not worried anymore, not afraid.

Maybe in time, your little brother won't be, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll format the pesterlogs correctly sometime soon - just wanted to get this up ASAP.
> 
> hope you liked the chapter!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently fixing 99% of your boyfriend's problems gets you some pretty rad thank you sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw! vanilla tho.  
> sorry for the wait. shit's been real.
> 
>  
> 
> real lazy, that is.

John ==> Make a little love.

God, you've always hated that phrase. Thinking about 'making love' has you picturing a forty-eight year old straight couple going at it when the kids are at a sleepover. Ew. You can, however, appreciate the fact that the intentions behind the expression are good. It's sweet to imagine that you're creating some form of love when having sex, even if the phrase itself grosses you out.

This is a lot sweeter and more loving than you're used to. Derick can be sweet and cute, of course, but sex between the two of you is usually rougher, more passionate and heavy. That's fine by you, no doubt about it, but new experiences are always fun. You can tell he just wants to love you tonight. He's grateful, both for what you've done for him today and what you did for him in the past. He's come so far since you met him. Before, he was lonely and unemployed and hopeless. Now, he's got you, he has a home, a job, a family. The two of you are a success story. Lifetime TV would totally make a movie of your lives together if they knew about you, and you don't even think that's a bad thing. Of course, you'd probably die at the end. Somebody always dies in those movies. 

Lifetime movies are kind of the last thing on your mind at the moment, though. After he wrapped up his conversation with Dave, your boyfriend scooped you up and tackled you down onto the bed. You insisted he move the comforter back first ("Those things are so dirty, dude!") but he wasted no time getting your shirt off after that. His lips tickle your neck and chest, his kisses more silly and sweet than passionate and hungry. You're both smiling and laughing as he covers you in kisses, barely stopping to take off his pointy shades. In fact, he only takes them off at all because he's scared of poking you. 

(That happened, once. It was a very painful experience and you still joke that you have a scar.)

You run your fingers through his hair, smiling wide as you watch him kiss down your chest. He pauses to suck on one of your nipples, licking and nipping and making you hum. That always gets you hard and you're sure he can feel your boner poking against his leg. He, of course, doesn't mind. Derick likes to know that you're having a good time, that what he's doing is getting you hard. Letting out a soft whine, you coax his face up to yours so you can kiss him again. It's hard to full-on make out with him because he's smiling so much. "Stop grinning, you big doof. I can't kiss you like this." Derick smiles again and ducks down to kiss your neck. "I can't." He murmurs against your skin, again kissing his way down your body before stopping at your belly to unbutton your jeans. "I can't stop smiling, kitten. Just ain't a possibility."

Still grinning, he manages to get your pants and boxers off in record time. He's eager today, but it's more eager to show his appreciation than eager to fuck you. (Then again, that may be a factor as well.) Derick nuzzles your cock, smiling and kissing the length as you're left whimpering for him. Right as you feel you can't take it anymore, he wraps his lips around the head of your dick and sucks. "Oh, fuck, sugar, more of that, okay?" He laughs and obeys, taking more of you in his mouth and humming around your growing erection. 

You've found that every time he blows you - like literally every time - you end up thinking about how funny blowjobs are. Who the fuck came up with this? "Sugar, have you ever thought about how silly blowjobs are? Like, you've got my junk in your mouth. That's ridiculous! You have my dick in your mouth! I _pee_ with that thing!" He gives you a look that says 'Dear god, shut up.' before ducking down and taking your entire cock in his mouth and throat. He sucks and hums and swallows, doing his best to get you to stop talking and start moaning. It works. Your rant about the strangeness of oral sex is cut off when he surprises you by moving his hand up so it's next to your mouth. Pulling off your length briefly, Derick speaks. 

"Suck." 

It's a bit more commanding than he's been tonight, but that shit turns you on like nobody's business. You take his pointer finger in his mouth, sucking and licking and essentially treating it like a cock.You know he loves this shit, the feeling of having you focus so much attention on one small, insignificant part of him. When his finger is thoroughly coated in saliva, he pulls it away and pulls off your dick. Whining, you're about to complain when you feel his finger slip inside you. He knows your body well enough by now that he finds your prostate in no time, and your spit is enough lube that it doesn't hurt. (Besides, you aren't really that tight.) 

"I wanna fuck you, but we don't have lube. This is gonna have to do, babydoll." His fingertip rubs against your prostate and you moan, as much from annoyance as from arousal. "C'mon, please, sugar? We can use whipped cream or something like in a terrible fanfiction." Derick just shakes his head. "I'm not a weird, secretly sadistic business man with a pointy chin. And besides, you're way too old to be reading that shit." You sigh, resentful of the fact that he thinks you're too old to be reading fanfiction (it's the only way Homura and Madoka get a happy ending!) but even more upset that you aren't getting laid tonight. Fully hard and a little desperate, you grind against his finger. "At least put another one in."

He does so, laying you down and climbing on top of you. Still thrusting his fingers in and out, rubbing teasingly at your prostate with every move, he leans down and kisses you. "Sorry, doll. I know lubricant is a pretty important item in this relationship." You laugh and wrap your legs around his waist. "Just fuck me with your fingers, then. Please, Master." The second that title slips out, his fingers start moving faster inside of you. Seems that's all the encouragement he needed to get even more in the mood. He sits up, pulling out and taking off his shirt. Obviously preparing to get down to business, he runs his fingers through his hair before diving down and kissing you again. "Such a good boy. God, John, you're so good." You reach up and cup his face in your hand. "Wash your fingers off and I'll help you, now, okay?" He obeys, sitting up and sprinting to the bathroom.

When he returns, he's naked with his hair slicked back with water. Damn, does he look sexy. Whenever his hair's wet, he looks like some hot surfer dude with lots of tattoos and scars. Maybe in this scenario, they're from some cool shark attack and not gang fights and heroin use. 

The imaginary is far more glamorous than reality for him, but you love it all. Besides, he's better now. Derick is safe and loved and _yours_ and you wouldn't trade him for anything. 

He sits down and you climb into his lap, straddling in his waist and sitting so your erections are rubbing against one another. Both of you are pretty needy for this to go quickly, so you lean forward and kiss him hard. His mouth opens and you slide your tongue alongside his, feeling the warmth of his mouth against yours and sighing into the kiss. He nips at your lip and you ruffle his hair playfully, reiterating that this is a fun experience rather than a serious one. Derick smiles and pulls away from the kiss, placing his lips on your neck as you place your hand around both of your cocks. He lets out a soft whine in surprise as you start to pump, rutting against him and shuddering when he does the same. 

His lips remain on your neck and he whispers little love notes to you as you touch him. "I love you, you're my sun, my angel, my perfect boy." In any other context, you'd tease him for being so corny - but even you know when to hold your tongue. As a child, you'd snap at people or be intensely blunt for no good reason. A few intensely awkward foot-in-mouth moments later, you've learned when to hush. Right now is one of those times. This moment is too special to interrupt with snark, and you're too euphoric to think of anything sufficiently sassy. 

Derick places his hand over yours, pumping and rubbing your dicks together. His forehead is resting on yours and he's staring into your eyes like they're a lifeline. It's kind of incredible feeling this close, this connected with someone. You love him more than anything, regardless of the fact that it's a sort of love neither of you expected.

As you look into his eyes, smiling and blushing like a child, you remember the first day he came into your home. He was cold and sick and alone and you helped him. You didn't have to - you easily could've walked home and frowned for a moment when you saw the ambulance drag away his body the next morning - but instead, you carried his limp, warm body up to your home and brought him back to life. 

Every once in a while, Derick will look at you with this certain look in his eyes that says "thank you" more clearly than words ever could. 

He's been looking at you like that all day. 

You moan softly as his thumb brushes over your slit, face turning red when you see him smile. "Love it when you moan for me," He croons, his free hand settled on your neck. "I love knowin' I'm making you feel good." Usually, sex between the two of you is very loud. It's more rough, more needy and passionate. This is much quieter, much more soft and intimate. It's different, but it's good. You hope he'd agree.

(He does.)

Meanwhile, you use the hand that isn't wrapped around his cock to stroke his hair, smoothing it down as you feel its softness between your fingers. It really is quite impressive how soft he is in general. Bro may be covered in tattoos and scars and muscly everywhere but his face, but his skin and hair is soft. Really, he's a pretty soft dude in general - but only when the two of you are alone. He cries every time the two of you watch _Up_ and if you scratch his head at a certain spot he gets all flustered and dizzy.

Other times, though, when he's grinding on you from behind and whispering filthy things into your ear, you forget all about what a big softie he is and instead focus on what a big hottie he is. It's the best of both worlds, really.

Little do you know, he notices how your attitude changes as well. While you're goofy and ridiculous most of the time, cracking jokes at inopportune moments and spending hours on intricate pranks, you turn into a little minx when horny. You moan like an amateur pornstar except your noises are for real, and you're more flexible than Gumby. Derick loves it all. He loves the silly jokes and the strange, badly timed humor and the sloppy handjobs in his car and the kissing in the elevator when you just can't wait to be alone. 

He pumps faster, making you whine and mewl and pull your hand away to claw at his back. After all, his hands are larger and he's much better at this than you are. Bro doesn't seem to mind. He's aware that he's a pro at this and he likes showing off. "There's a good boy." He murmurs as you rut against him, his cock hard and hot against your own. You're gasping and breathy, mouth open as he kisses you hard. It's not as vanilla as before, but nowhere near as kinky as the two of you usually get. His tongue slides against yours as his free hand holds the back if your head, keeping you steady and unable to pull away. "Mine." Derick's voice is softer than it usually is when he says things like that. It's sweet, in a way, and you appreciate knowing that owning you really does bring him joy as well as arousal. 

You cum at the same time, his lips on yours as you both orgasm. He whines your name, John, baby, my John, my love, over and over as his and your spunk lands on your chest. At the same time, you're still and whining, staring into his eyes and resisting the urge to shut your own. Instead, they crinkle at the sides and remain open, allowing you to watch him as he finishes with you. 

Derick kisses your face and neck, wiping the mess off your chests with a towel before collapsing into bed next to you. Not about to mess up his strict routine, he licks some of the remaining cum off your nipple and smiles before cleaning you the rest of the way off. It tickles, making you giggle and hum. Before long, the two of you are cuddling together and he's repeating a familiar phrase over and over.

"Thank you."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinnertime with the Egberts.

==> Be the family man at the family dinner that you are entirely unprepared for. 

You and John spend a week with Dave and Jade and everything is beautiful and safe. It's like you're home. Being back in the apartment in Washington with John definitely feels like home, but this is different. This is family and you never thought you'd truly have that. It's a blissful week and you don't want to go back home, not really, not after all the great things that have happened here. It isn't something you can choose, though. John has work and school and you have gigs to play. Life can't be put on pause because of a family reunion. 

What you weren't expecting, though, was to meet John's family. His dad lives on the other side of Washington and he's coming over for dinner to meet you. Now, your life has not been easy. You were on the streets for a long time, in prison for a little while, you were beaten and abused and forgotten about. Meeting John's dad is scarier than all of those things. 

John insists that his father is a kind, gentle man just like he is. Although you don't think he's lying, you suspect he's a little biased. And what's Mr. Egbert going to think about how the two of you met? Is he even okay with John being with a man? Homosexuality's got nothin' on a prison record and a horrible childhood, though. What if he hates you?

What if he convinces John to leave you?

All of this is terrifying and you know that if you fuck up, it could ruin everything. You can't let that happen. Everything's been going so fucking well and you can't mess up now. Worrying your ass off won't help, though, so you push the fear away and instead focus on grilling John about his dad's likes and dislikes and pet peeves and favorite things. 

"Does he like music? Art? Piano, like you? Is he a foodie? Is he one of those middle-aged guys who has an active Instagram filled with pictures of plants and food, or does he get confused trying to change his profile picture on Facebook? Is he gonna hate my shades? Should I get other ones? Will he like me more if I get a haircut? I mean, you like my hair long, and believe me, that's important. But I'd cut it if he'd like that. Short? Army-style? I'd look more professional that way, right? Trustworthy? Should I lie about my past or be hella honest up front? What does he hate less: bad breath or bad manners? I can get rid of both. Mints and an _Etiquette for Dummies_ book oughta do it, right? That should work. That'll work, right?"

You're rambling, babbling vomiting out words and questions on the plane trip home. John just stares at you, wide-eyed and smirking. You're almost surprised he isn't filming this; there's no doubt that your panic would go viral. 'NERVOUS EX CON LOSES IT ON SOUTHWEST PLANE' the title would read. 'ORIGINAL!!! FULL CLIP'. Some asshole would make a dubstep remix of your meltdown.

Calm down, Strider. He's just a fifty-year-old man who _raised the love of your life._

Okay, so thinking about that isn't actually helping. You distract yourself by letting John put your hair in braids, which you used to hate until you realize it feels really nice. By the end of the trip, you're quite calmer and you have more braids in your hair than an entire 90s R&B girl group. When you shake them out, your hair is wavy and soft. It actually looks pretty classy. 

John's dad picks you up at the airport so he can go back to your apartment with you. When you see him, you're a little in awe of how much he looks like an older, more sophisticated John. If you were into older guys you'd probably have an awkward crush on your boyfriend's dad. He shakes your hand with a strong grip, commenting on how 'interesting' your tattoos are. Shit. 

John sits in the back seat of the car with you (thank god) and his dad seems a little dejected. "Goodness, Jonathan, you'd think the man who raised you would get to be the one to sit next to you." You just look at your boyfriend, horror in your eyes. So far, this is not going well.  
You try to make conversation but it's awkward and forced. Eventually, Mr. Egbert asks how you met. This is the point where you really wish you'd just taken a cab. Saying he doesn't seem to like you would be an understatement, especially after John answers. He looks over at you, squeezing your hand before turning back to his father to give an abbreviated version of your love story. "He lived outside my apartment and I found him passed out in the cold. He almost died so I took him inside and we, um. We got close." 

You can see Egbert raise an eyebrow in the rear-view mirror. "Were you drunk, boy?"

boy.

 _boy._

The guards called you that in prison, laughing and smacking the back of your head as they mocked you for your tattoos and your record and your impending, never-ending loneliness.

Your foster father called you that before he beat you, before he told you never to come back, fag, before he told you that you were dead to him.

You never thought you'd hear that word come out of the mouth of the father of someone you love. All you can say back is a quick, shaky "No." and you're quiet for the rest of the ride. John explains that you never drank, not anymore, and you have _a job and a future and god, dad, just leave him alone, I love him._

Admittedly, hearing that does help a little. 

Once you're back at the apartment you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and change, putting on a nice, short-sleeve dress shirt and covering your upper arm and chest tattoos with makeup. You don't need John's dad to judge you any more.

John and Mr. Egbert cook and you sit in the kitchen, trying your hardest to put on a brave face. Mr. Egbert asks about your past some more and you answer with just 'yes' or 'no' and he figures out that you don't want to talk about it. Finally, he asks about something you love talking about. John.

He asks what makes you love his son. 

It's clear that this question is very important to him and you're not about to fuck this up. Actually, you know you won't. This is a topic that you could go on for hours about. When you're around friends, it's all you _can_ talk about. Smiling to yourself, you take a deep breath before starting your little speech.

"Mr. Egbert, you have a very, very handsome son. He's got eyes like the San Diego ocean and his smile looks like somethin' out of a Veneers billboard. His hair is always fluffy and messy but also totally perfect at the same time, and goddamn if it ain't the softest thing in the world." You pause for a moment. "But that ain't why I feel for him. And him saving my life didn't make me fall in love, either. Those things helped, of course, but the real reason is that John makes me happy. I wasn't happy before him, even back when my life was okay. It was always just okay, never good, definitely never great. Every day, when I wake up and his cute lil' face is there in front of me - that's when I know it's gonna be a perfect day. Not okay, not good, not great. Perfect. Because he always burns my toast the first try and then the next time, it's so perfect you think he should own a toast restaurant. He makes some joke about the egg he's cookin' being his cousin Bert and it's so stupid but I always laugh because I love that I got the privilege of bein' with a guy who can be that goofy. Sometimes we hardly see each other all day because of work, but when I get home he's there and even when he's passed out on the couch in front of a rerun of _Project Runway_ , he's great company."

You haven't looked at John this whole time because it's embarrassing, but also because you don't want to get distracted. You bite your lip.

"Honestly, Mr. Egbert, I dunno how I wouldn't love your son. I don't know how to put my gratitude into words, really, but thank you. Thank you for raising him to become this man. I know most of it's just embedded in his heart, in his soul, but I'm sure a lot of it was because of you and your late wife. And let me tell you, Sir, I am not lying or flatterin' you. I mean this. I've lied a lot of times in my life but I could never lie about how I feel about John."

There's tears in your eyes when you finally look up at John and his dad. John is covering his mouth in shock that he's hearing these tender, warm words coming from you - usually you save those for when you're in private and also a little bit drunk. His dad is just smiling. When you finish speaking, he wipes his mouth on a napkin, folds it neatly on the table, and retreats to the kitchen.

He returns with a lemon cake that has icing that reads 'Welcome to the family' on it. "There's another one in the kitchen that I spat on. It says 'Get out of my house' and I was sincerely hoping I wouldn't have to use it." Mr. Egbert sticks out his hand and shakes yours. "Good work, son."

It's the first time anyone's called you son. If you weren't so shocked, you'd cry.

This is better than you expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE WAIT SORRY OOPS SORRY


End file.
